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Rest if you must, but never quit.

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
Quit
Quitting
Rest
Must
Never

More quotes by John Greenleaf Whittier

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What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?
John Greenleaf Whittier
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What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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Thanks to Allah, who gives the palm!
John Greenleaf Whittier
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And step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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!
John Greenleaf Whittier
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Freedom's soil hath only place For a free and fearless race!
John Greenleaf Whittier
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The child must teach the man.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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
John Greenleaf Whittier
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Small leisure have the poor for grief.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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The green earth sends her incense up. From many a mountain shrine From folded leaf and dewey cup She pours her sacred wine.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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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.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.
John Greenleaf Whittier
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The still, sad music of humanity.
John Greenleaf Whittier