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Children have neither past nor future - they rejoice in the present.

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
Neither
Present
Wisdom
Future
Past
Children
Rejoice

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Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
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And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
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Blow, bugles of battle, the marches of peace East, west, north, and south let the long quarrel cease Sing the song of great joy that the angels began, Sing the glory to God and of good-will to man!
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Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.
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What does the good ship bear so well? The cocoa-nut with its stony shell, And the milky sap of its inner cell.
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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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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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Every chain that spirits wear crumbles in the breadth of prayer.
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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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This is truth the poet sings . . .
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
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Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in.
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Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, Through showers the sunbeams fall For God, who loveth all his works, Has left his Hope with all.
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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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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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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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Romance is always young.
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What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?
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The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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Few have borne unconsciously the spell of loveliness.
John Greenleaf Whittier