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Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow.

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
Seasons
Summer
Burns
Return
Noon
Come
Returns
Without
Sunset
Sudden
Fixed
Snow

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Life may be given in many ways, and loyalty to truth be sealed as bravely in the closet as the field.
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Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a poor roof.
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To be young is surely the best, if the most precarious, gift of life.
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But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet. Lessen like sound of friends departing feet And death is beautiful as feet of friend. Coming with welcome at our journey's end.
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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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For only by unlearning Wisdom comes.
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Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.
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The discontent with the existing order of things pervaded the atmosphere, wherever the conditions were favorable, long before Columbus, seeking the back door of Asia, found himself knocking at the front door of America.
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The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.
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It is not the insurrections of ignorance that are dangerous, but the revolts of the intelligence.
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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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The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some musical strings in it but they are tuned differently in every one of us.
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It is good To lengthen to the last a sunny mood.
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Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, - they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.
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His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hern went pity-Zekle.
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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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Freedom needs all her poets it is they Who give her aspirations wings, And to the wiser law of music sway Her wild imaginings.
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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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We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage.
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Who is it needs such flawless shafts as fate? What archer of his arrows is so choice, or hits the white so surely?
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