Quote

What means this glory round our feet, The Magi mused, more bright than morn! And voices chanted clear and sweet, To-day the Prince of Peace is born.

James Russell Lowell

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James Russell Lowell
Age: 72 †
Born: 1819
Born: February 22
Died: 1891
Died: August 12
Diplomat
Essayist
Journalist
Literary Critic
Poet
Writer
Cambridge
Massachusetts
Means
Christmas
Magi
Mean
Glory
Mused
Sweet
Morn
Feet
Prince
Clear
Voices
Peace
Bright
Voice
Round
Born
Rounds
Chanted

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Good luck is the willing handmaid of upright, energetic character, and conscientious observance of duty.
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Be He nowhere else, God is in all that liberates and lifts, in all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles.
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Here come the hum the golden bees Underneath full blossomed trees, At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned.
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To educate the intelligence is to expand the horizon of its wants and desires.
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To put more faith in lies and hate than truth and love, is the true atheism.
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There is surely room for yet another schoolmaster when a score of seers advertise themselves in Boston newspapers.
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One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.
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A wise man travels to discover himself.
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That cause is strong which has, not a multitude, but one strong man behind it.
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A sneer is the weapon of the weak. Like other devil's weapons, it is always cunningly ready to our hand, and there is more poison in the handle than in the point.
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No price is set on the lavish summer June may be had by the poorest comer.
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The story of any one man's real experience finds its startling parallel in that of every one of us.
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Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do that day, which must be done, whether you like it or not.
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They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.
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I tell ye wut, my judgment is you're pooty sure to fail, Ez long 'z the head keeps turnin' back for counsel to the the tail.
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The child is not mine as the first was, I cannot sing it to rest, I cannot lift it up fatherly And bliss it upon my breast Yet it lies in my little one's cradle And sits in my little one's chair, And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair.
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What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!
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The only conclusive evidence of a man's sincerity is that he gives himself for a principle. Words, money, all things else, are comparatively easy to give away but when a man makes a gift of his daily life and practice, it is plain that the truth, whatever it may be, has taken possession of him.
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Life is a sheet of paper white / Whereon each one of us may write / His word or two, and then comes night.
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Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how.
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