Quote

So let it be in God's own might We gird us for the coming fight, And, strong in Him whose cause is ours In conflict with unholy powers, We grasp the weapons he has given,-- The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven.

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
Love
Causes
Powers
Fighting
Conflict
Heaven
Weapons
Strong
Whose
Given
Cause
Light
Strength
Gird
Truth
Fight
Unholy
Might
Coming
Grasp

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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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We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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God's providence is not blind, but full of eyes.
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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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A charmed life old goodness hath the tares may perish, but the grain is not for death.
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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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Around the mighty master came The marvels which his pencil wrought, Those miracles of power whose fame Is wide as human thought.
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They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, that all of thee we loved and cherished has with thy summer roses perished and left, as its young beauty fled, an ashen memory in its stead.
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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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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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What is really momentous and all-important with us is the present, by which the future is shaped and colored.
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Beauty is its own excuse.
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The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.
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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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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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A felon's cell-- The fittest earthly type of hell!
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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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He is wisest, who only gives, True to himself, the best he can: Who drifting on the winds of praise, The inward monitor obeys. And with the boldness that confuses fear Takes in the crowded sail, and lets his conscience steer.
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