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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.

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
Sings
Dreams
April
Laughing
Showers
Dream
Streams
Flowers
Tassels
Wake
Blackbirds
Maple
Winter
Tremble
Flower

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Every chain that spirits wear crumbles in the breadth of prayer.
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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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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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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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From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.
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The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
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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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The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.
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And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
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And let these altars, wreathed with flowers And piled with fruits, awake again Thanksgivings for the golden hours, The early and the latter rain!
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Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
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A felon's cell-- The fittest earthly type of hell!
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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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Truth is one And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may see The tokens of its unity.
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Simple duty hath no place for fear.
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Time is hastening on, and we What our fathers are shall be,-- Shadow-shapes of memory! Joined to that vast multitude Where the great are but the good.
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Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn
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Rap, rap! upon the well-worn stone, How falls the polished hammer! Rap, rap! the measured sound has grown A quick and merry clamor. Now shape the sole! now deftly curl The glassy vamp around it, And bless the while the bright-eyed girl Whose gentle fingers bound it!
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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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