Quotes from John Greenleaf Whittier

And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing Returns to you glad.

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!

O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother; Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there; To worship rightly is to love each other, Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.

Rest if you must, but never quit.

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.

God's colors all are fast.

From the death of the old the new proceeds, and the life of truth from the death of creeds.

The great eventful Present hides the Past; but through the din Of its loud life hints and echoes from the life behind steal in.

A charmed life old goodness hath; the tares may perish, but the grain is not for death.

All the windows of my heart I open to the day.

With our sympathy for the wrongdoer we need the old Puritan and Quaker hatred of wrongdoing; with our just tolerance of men and opinions a righteous abhorrence of sin.

Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant.

A true life is at once interpreter and proof of the gospel.

No longer forward or behind I look in hope or fear, But grateful, take the good I find, The best of now and here.

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie?

Flowers spring to blossom where she walks The careful ways of duty; Our hard, stiff lines of life with her Are flowing curves of beauty.

There's life alone in duty done, And rest alone in striving.

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.

Shut in from all the world without,We sat the clean-winged hearth about.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,Clear in the cool September morn.

The sun that brief December dayRose cheerless over hills of gray,And, darkly circled, gave at noonA sadder light than waning moon.

Methinks I see the sunset light flooding the river valley, the western hills stretching to the horizon, overhung with trees gorgeous and glowing with the tints of autumn—a mighty flower garden, blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, Frost...

The clustered spires of Frederick standGreen-walled by the hills of Maryland.

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawnWhich once he wore!The glory from his gray hairs goneForevermore!