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Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn

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
Clear
Morn
Meadows
Corn
September
Cool
Months
Rich

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For still the new transcends the old In signs and tokens manifold Slaves rise up men the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!
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Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat- No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat, Or caught a rat. Requiescat!
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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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And I will trust that He who heeds The life that hides in mead and wold, Who hangs you alder's crimson beads, And stains these mosses green and gold, Will still, as He hath done, incline His gracious care to me and mine.
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Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant.
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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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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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A charmed life old goodness hath the tares may perish, but the grain is not for death.
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Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
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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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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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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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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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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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It is well for us if we have learned to listen to the sweet persuasion of the Beatitudes, but there are crises in all lives which require also the emphatic Thou shalt not of the decalogue which the founders wrote on the gateposts of their commonwealth.
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God's providence is not blind, but full of eyes.
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God is good and God is light In this faith I rest secure, Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.
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Every chain that spirits wear crumbles in the breadth of prayer.
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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 tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
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