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The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.

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
Earnest
Souls
Realized
Hope
Soul
Must

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Simple duty hath no place for fear.
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Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.
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The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
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Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!
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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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Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.
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The low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings.
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A felon's cell-- The fittest earthly type of hell!
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Through the open door A drowsy smell of flowers -grey heliotrope And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette Comes fairly in, and silent chorus leads To the pervading symphony of Peace.
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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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And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood.
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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 light is mingled with the gloom, And joy with grief Divinest compensations come, Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom In sweet relief.
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Nature speaks in symbols and in signs.
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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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They who wander widest lift No more of beauties' jealous veils, Than they who from their doorways see The miracle of flowers and trees.
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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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Beauty is its own excuse.
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Romance is always young.
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This is truth the poet sings . . .
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