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And sweet and far as from a star, replied a voice which shall not cease, till drowning all the noise of war, it sings the blessed song of peace
John Greenleaf Whittier
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John Greenleaf Whittier
Age: 84 †
Born: 1807
Born: December 17
Died: 1892
Died: September 7
Journalist
Lawyer
Poet
Writer
Haverhill
Massachusetts
Song
Star
Blessed
Sweet
Sings
Shall
Replied
Stars
Drowning
Peace
Till
Voice
Noise
War
Cease
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Romance is always young.
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They who wander widest lift No more of beauties' jealous veils, Than they who from their doorways see The miracle of flowers and trees.
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Every chain that spirits wear crumbles in the breadth of prayer.
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Beauty is its own excuse.
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The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon.
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Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.
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Small leisure have the poor for grief.
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Falsehoods which we spurn today, were the truths of long ago.
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The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.
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Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn
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I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
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Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!
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Despair is infidelity and death.
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With warning hand I mark Time's rapid flight, From Life's glad morning to its solemn night Yet, through the dear Lord's love, I also show There's light above me by the shade I throw.
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God's providence is not blind, but full of eyes.
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With silence only as their benediction, God's angels come Where in the shadow of a great affliction, The soul sits dumb!
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Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.
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We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade.
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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought.
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