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The soul that feeds on books alone - I count that soul exceeding small That lives alone by book and creed, - A soul that has not learned to read.

Joaquin Miller

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Joaquin Miller
Age: 71 †
Born: 1841
Born: November 10
Died: 1913
Died: February 13
Journalist
Judge
Lawyer
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Liberty
Indiana
Giles Gaston
Joaquin Miller
Cincinnatus Hiner Miller
Soul
Creeds
Book
Count
Learned
Small
Alone
Books
Exceeding
Read
Feeds
Lives
Creed

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There are many To-morrows, my Love, my Love, There is only one To-day.
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Men lie, who lack courage to tell truth--the cowards!
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I throw a kiss across the sea, I drink the winds as drinking wine, And dream they all are blown from thee, I catch the whisper'd kiss of thine.
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Fame lulls the fever of the soul, and makes Us feel that we have grasp'd an immortality.
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God's poet is silence! His song is unspoken, And yet so profound, so loud, and so far, It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken, And as soft, and as fair, and as far as a star.
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He gained a world he gave that world Its grandest lesson: On! sail on!
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Knowledge is Bought only with a weary care, And wisdom means a world of pain.
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Merciful Father, I will not complain. I know that the sunshine shall follow the rain.
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The living grave of crime.
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Lonely as God, and white as a winter moon, Mount Shasta starts up sudden and solitary from the heart of the great black forests of Northern California
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Physiognomy is often a great falsifier, though as a rule it is honest enough.
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Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!
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That man who lives for self alone, Lives for the meanest mortal known.
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Is it worthwhile that we jostle a brother, Bearing his load on the rough road of life? Is it worthwhile that we jeer at each other, In blackness of heart - that we war to the knife? God pity us all in our pitiful strife
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Primeval forests! virgin sod! That Saxon has not ravish'd yet, Lo! peak on peak in stairways set- In stepping stairs that reach to God! Here we are free as sea or wind, For here are set Time's snowy tents In everlasting battlements Against the march of Saxon mind.
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The gold-barr'd butterflies to and from And over the waterside wander'd and wove As heedless and idle as clouds that rove And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow.
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