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A man may make a misanthrope of himself, but he is never one by nature.

Lucy Larcom

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Lucy Larcom
Age: 69 †
Born: 1824
Born: March 5
Died: 1893
Died: April 17
Poet
Teacher
Writer
Beverly
Massachusetts
Men
Misanthrope
Nature
May
Make
Never

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If the world seems cold to you, kindle fires to warm it.
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Every true friend is a glimpse of God.
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A drop of water, if it could write out its own history, would explain the universe to us.
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The peach-bud glows, the wild bee hums, and wind-flowers wave in graceful gladness.
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Many kinds of fruit grow upon the tree of life, but none so sweet as friendship as with the orange tree its blossoms and fruit appear at the same time, full of refreshment for sense and for soul.
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No one can feel more gratefully the charm of noble scenery, or the refreshment of escape into the unspoiled solitudes of nature, than the laborer at some close in-door employment.
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The first real unhappiness I remember to have felt was when some one told me, one day, that I did not love God. I insisted, almost tearfully, that I did but I was told that if I did truly love Him I should always be good. I knew I was not that, and the feeling of sudden orphanage came over me like a bewildering cloud.
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Whatever science and philosophy may do for mankind, the world can never outgrow its need of the simplicity that is in Christ.
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The curse of covetousness is that it destroys manhood by substituting money for character.
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The land is dearer for the sea, The ocean for the shore.
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The beauty of work depends upon the way we meet it — whether we arm ourselves each morning to attack it as an enemy that must be vanquished before night comes, or whether we open our eyes with the sunrise to welcome it as an approaching friend.
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If the world 's a vale of tears, Smile, till rainbows span it!
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I defied the machinery to make me its slave. Its incessant discords could not drown the music of my thoughts if I would let them fly high enough.
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A journal of the 'subjective' kind I have always thought foolish, as nurturing a morbid self -consciousness in the writer and yet, alone so much as I am, it is well to have some sort of a ventilator from the interior.
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Few parents are aware of the difficulties that beset the minds of the little philosophers and theologians who sit upon their knees or play at their feet and many a parent could not comprehend the disturbance, if he were aware of it.
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That larger vision is certain to make clear the value in our own lives of service to others.
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To different minds, poetry may present different phases. To me, the reverent faith of the people I lived among, and their faithful everyday living, was poetry blossoms and trees and blue shies were poetry. God himself was poetry.
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Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, What the glory of thy boughs shall be?
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These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths, With dear companions now passed out of sight, Shall not be laid upon their graves. They live, Since love is deathless. Pleasure now nor pride Is theirs in mortal wise, but hallowing thoughts Will meet the offering, of so little worth, Wanting the benison death has made divine.
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The whole world of thought lay unexplored before me, - a world of which I had already caught large and tempting glimpses.
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