Quote

All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain Like shadows on the winter sky Like frost upon the pane

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
Darkness
Pane
Cold
Lain
Upon
Frost
Heart
Shadows
Like
Winter
Sky
Shadow
Quiet

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Rest if you must, but never quit.
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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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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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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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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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Nature speaks in symbols and in signs.
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The still, sad music of humanity.
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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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If thou of fortune be bereft, and in thy store there be but left two loaves, sell one, and with the dole, buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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What is good looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,-generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around you and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words of admiration.
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Thee lift me, and I lift thee, and together we ascend.
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What is really momentous and all-important with us is the present, by which the future is shaped and colored.
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The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
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Like warp and woof all destinies Are woven fast, Linked in sympathy like the keys Of an organ vast. Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar Break but one Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar Through all will run.
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What, my soul, was thy errand here? Was it mirth or ease, Or heaping up dust from year to year? Nay, none of these! Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight, Whose eye looks still And steadily on thee through the night To do His will!
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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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Few have borne unconsciously the spell of loveliness.
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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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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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