Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.
Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant ...
The good is always beautiful, the beautiful is good!
There is religion in everything around us, - a calm and holy religion in the unbreathing things of Nature, which man would do well to imitate.
Rest if you must, but never quit.
Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!
One brave deed makes no hero.
There's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.
Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat- No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat, Or caught a rat. Requiescat!
God's colors all are fast.
Ah, that I were free again! Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay
Green calm below, blue quietness above.
Despair is infidelity and death.
If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.
If woman lost us Eden, such as she alone can restore it
We faintly hear, we dimly see, In differing phrase we pray; But dim or clear, we own in Him The life, the truth, the way.
I'll lift you and you lift me, and we'll both ascend together. John Greenleaf Whit
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.
Unknown to her the rigid rule, the dull restraint, the chiding frown, the weary torture of the school, the taming of wild nature down.
Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace.
Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young. John Greenleaf Whit
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!
What is good looking, as Horace Smith remarks, but looking good? Be good, be womanly, be gentle,-generous in your sympathies, heedful of the well-being of all around you; and, my word for it, you will not lack kind words of admiration.
This is truth the poet sings . . .
For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been'.
Formed on the good old plan, A true and brave and downright honest man! He blew no trumpet in the market-place, Nor in the church with hypocritic face Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace; Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will What others talked of while their hands were still.
Peace hath higher tests of manhood, than battle ever knew. John Greenleaf Whittie
Better heresy of doctrine than heresy of heart.
Autumn, in his leafless bowers, is waiting for the winter's snow.
What, my soul, was thy errand here?Was it mirth or ease,Or heaping up dust from year to year?"Nay, none of these!"Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight,Whose eye looks stillAnd steadily on thee through the night;"To do His will!