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And peace unweaponed conquers every wrong!

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
Conquers
Conquer
Wrong
Peace
Every

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Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all.
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Nature speaks in symbols and in signs.
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Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing the glory to God and of good-will to man!
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O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.
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Rest if you must, but never quit.
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Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace.
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Give fools their gold, and knaves their power let fortune's bubbles rise and fall who sows a field, or trains a flower, or plants a tree, is more than all.
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Again the blackbirds sings the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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I dimly guess, from blessings known, of greater out of sight.
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For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living Love scarce is love that never knows The sweetness of forgiving.
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The simple heart that freely asks in love, obtains.
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Falsehoods which we spurn today, were the truths of long ago.
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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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Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So Bonnie Doon but tarry Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland Mary!
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Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!
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Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
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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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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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The sooner we recognize the fact that the mercy of the Almighty extends to every creature endowed with life, the better it will be for us as men and Christians.
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