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And but two ways are offered to our will, Toil with rare triumph, ease with safe disgrace, The problem still for us and all of human race.
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
Way
Ways
Disgrace
Race
Toil
Two
Offered
Stills
Comparison
Problem
Rare
Still
Triumph
Human
Ease
Humans
Safe
More quotes by James Russell Lowell
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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The quiet tenderness of Chaucer, where you almost seem to hear the hot tears falling, and the simple choking words sobbed out.
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The pine is the mother of legends.
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Light is the symbol of truth.
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Christ was the first true democrat that ever breathed, as the old dramatist Dekkar said he was the first true gentleman.
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Whoever can endure unmixed delight, whoever can tolerate music and painting and poetry all in one, whoever wishes to be rid of thought and to let the busy anvils of the brain be silent for a time, let him read in the Faery Queen.
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Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.
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Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star, And yet her heart is ever near.
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The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed Man is more than Constitutions better rot beneath the sod, Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to God.
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To be young is surely the best, if the most precarious, gift of life.
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Greatly begin. Though thou have time, but for a line, be that sublime. Not failure, but low aim is crime.
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The one thing finished in this hasty world.
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What men call luck Is the prerogative of valiant souls, The fealty life pays its rightful kings.
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The soil out of which such men as he are made is good to be born on, good to live on, good to die for and to be buried in.
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Not suffering, but faint heart, is worst of woes.
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The purely Great Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.
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In the ocean of baseness, the deeper we get, the easier the sinking.
James Russell Lowell
The devil loves nothing better than the intolerance of reformers.
James Russell Lowell
Reading Chaucer is like brushing through the dewy grass at sunrise.
James Russell Lowell
Better one bite at forty, of truths bitter rind, than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty.
James Russell Lowell
