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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.
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
Wind
Gray
Knowing
March
North
Boughs
Wild
Arch
Sky
Arches
Sea
Shaken
Watches
Blowing
Watch
Smiling
More quotes by John Greenleaf Whittier
Again the blackbirds sings the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers.
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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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From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.
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What is really momentous and all-important with us is the present, by which the future is shaped and colored.
John Greenleaf Whittier
Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in.
John Greenleaf Whittier
Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart.
John Greenleaf Whittier
Falsehoods which we spurn today, were the truths of long ago.
John Greenleaf Whittier
Small leisure have the poor for grief.
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The low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings.
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Press bravely onward! - not in vainYour generous trust in human kindThe good which bloodshed could not gainYour peaceful zeal shall find.
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Quite the ugliest face I ever saw was that of a woman whom the world called beautiful. Through its silver veil the evil and ungentle passions looked out, hideous and hateful.
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I dimly guess, from blessings known, of greater out of sight.
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Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.
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All day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain Like shadows on the winter sky Like frost upon the pane
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The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
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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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Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!
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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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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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This is truth the poet sings . . .
John Greenleaf Whittier