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And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.
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
Brown
Woods
Close
Basket
Hand
Baskets
Hands
October
Wood
Nuts
Stood
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Few have borne unconsciously the spell of loveliness.
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Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings I know that God is good!
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All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain Like shadows on the winter sky Like frost upon the pane
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No longer forward or behind I look in hope or fear, But grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in.
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O Time and change! - with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!
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The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame Buy cheap, sell dear eat. drink, and sleep down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want Pay tithes for soul-insurance keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant
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Truth should be the first lesson of the child and the last aspiration of manhood for it has been well said that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making of it, the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it, and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it, is the sovereign good of human nature.
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Rest if you must, but never quit.
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There's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
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Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart.
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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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Low stir of leaves and dip of oars And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
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From purest wells of English undefiled None deeper drank than he, the New World's Child, Who in the language of their farm field spoke The wit and wisdom of New England folk.
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What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?
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Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold: Once more with harvest song and shout Is nature's boldest triumph told.
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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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Nature speaks in symbols and in signs.
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Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing, under the sky's gray arch. Smiling, I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.
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