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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.
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
Beneath
Unity
Sun
Land
Eyes
Whoso
Eye
Tokens
Truth
Lands
May
Hath
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God is good and God is light In this faith I rest secure, Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.
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Like warp and woof all destinies Are woven fast, Linked in sympathy like the keys Of an organ vast. Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar Break but one Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar Through all will run.
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There's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
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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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Nothing before, nothing behind The steps of faith Fall on the seeming void, and find The Rock beneath.
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The child must teach the man.
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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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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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And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
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The simple heart that freely asks in love, obtains.
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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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This is truth the poet sings . . .
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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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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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In kindly showers and sunshine bud The branches of the dull gray wood Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks The blue eye of the violet looks.
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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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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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The low green tent Whose curtain never outward swings.
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