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Leaning on Him, make with reverent meekness His own thy will.

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
Make
Reverent
Meekness
Leaning

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Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold: Once more with harvest song and shout Is nature's boldest triumph told.
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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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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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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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Despair is infidelity and death.
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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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Children have neither past nor future - they rejoice in the present.
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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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Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.
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O Time and change! - with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!
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Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!
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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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We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our Future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade.
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I dimly guess, from blessings known, of greater out of sight.
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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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The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.
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A little smile, a word of cheer, A bit of love from someone near, A little gift from one held dear, Best wishes for the coming year. These make a merry christmas!
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Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So Bonnie Doon but tarry Blot out the epic's stately rhyme, But spare his Highland Mary!
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Every chain that spirits wear crumbles in the breadth of prayer.
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Simple duty hath no place for fear.
John Greenleaf Whittier