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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.

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
Spokes
World
None
Farms
England
Fields
Spoke
Undefiled
Wisdom
Wit
Purest
Child
Folks
Drank
Language
Field
Farm
Wells
English
Folk
Children
Deeper

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The simple heart that freely asks in love, obtains.
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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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Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat- No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat, Or caught a rat. Requiescat!
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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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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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And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
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Beneath the winter's snow lie germs of summer flowers.
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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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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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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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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.
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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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Despair is infidelity and death.
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Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress-trees Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play!
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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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Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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This is truth the poet sings . . .
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Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace.
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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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