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Large charity doth never soil, but only whitens soft white hands.

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
White
Hands
Never
Doth
Soft
Soil
Charity
Large

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Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, and cries reproachful: Was it then my praise, and not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth I claim of thee the promise of thy youth.
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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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That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing.
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Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward Rains fall, suns rise and set Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
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A weed is no more than a flower in disguise.
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The Don Quixote of one generation may live to hear himself called the savior of society by the next.
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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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Human nature has a much greater genius for sameness than for originality.
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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 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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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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Children are God's Apostles, sent forth, day by day, to preach of love, and hope, and peace.
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In the scale of the destinies, brawn will never weigh so mach as brain.
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All thoughts that mold the age begin deep down within the primitive soul.
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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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O visionary world, condition strange, Where naught abiding is but only change.
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Most men make the voyage of life as if they carried sealed orders which they were not to open till they were fairly in mid-ocean.
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There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.
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The wisest man could ask no more of fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few Nothing to court in Church, or World, or State, But inwardly in secret to be great.
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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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