Quote

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.

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
Gold
Hides
Heeds
Trust
Heed
Mead
Stills
Gracious
Incline
Care
Providence
Crimson
Still
Hath
Beads
Done
Mines
Hangs
Life
Mine
Moss
Wold
Green
Stains
Mosses

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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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Low stir of leaves and dip of oars And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
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Simple duty hath no place for fear.
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With warning hand I mark Time's rapid flight, From Life's glad morning to its solemn night Yet, through the dear Lord's love, I also show There's light above me by the shade I throw.
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For still the new transcends the old In signs and tokens manifold Slaves rise up men the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!
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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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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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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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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 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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The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
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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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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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Truth is one And, in all lands beneath the sun, Whoso hath eyes to see may see The tokens of its unity.
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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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The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
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Rest if you must, but never quit.
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O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.
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What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.
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