Quote

I who still pray at morning and at eve Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed, Thrice stirred below conscious self Have felt that perfect disenthrallment which is God.

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
Perhaps
Morning
Thrice
Perfect
Stirred
Felt
Prayed
Stills
Pray
Still
Praying
Self
Conscious
Life
Truly

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Analysis is carried into everything. Even Deity is subjected to chemical tests.
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The future works out great men's destinies The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever.
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God is not dumb, that he should speak no more If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness And find'st not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor.
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So we're all right, an' I, for one, Don't think our cause'll lose in vally By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun, An' gittin' Natur' for an ally.
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Did man e'er live Saw priest or woman yet forgive?
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Praise follows truth afar off, and only overtakes her at the grave plausibility clings to her skirts and holds her back till then
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Sentiment is intellectualized emotion emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.
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A profound common sense is the best genius for statesmanship.
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Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
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Truth always has a bewitching savor of newness in it, and novelty at the first taste recalls that original sweetness to the tongue but alas for him who would make the one a substitute for the other.
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Metaphor is no argument, though it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home, and imbed it in the memory.
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Silence is sorrow's best food.
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Borrowed garments never keep one warm.
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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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The English Puritans pulled down church and state to rebuild Zion on the ruins, and all the while it was not Zion, but America, they were building.
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Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.
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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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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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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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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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