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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!

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
Early
Fruits
Hours
Latter
Awake
Flowers
Golden
Fruit
Wreathed
Rain
Piled
Flower
Altars

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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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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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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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Children have neither past nor future - they rejoice in the present.
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Despair is infidelity and death.
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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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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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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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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 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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The simple heart that freely asks in love, obtains.
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Thee lift me, and I lift thee, and together we ascend.
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A felon's cell-- The fittest earthly type of hell!
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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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And sweet and far as from a star, replied a voice which shall not cease, till drowning all the noise of war, it sings the blessed song of peace
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