Quotes from John Greenleaf Whittier

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!

I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.

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.

This is truth the poet sings . . .

As a small businessperson, you have no greater leverage than the truth.

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.

O Time and change! - with hair as gray as was my sire's that winter day, how strange it seems, with so much gone of life and love, to still live on!

For still in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living; Love scarce is love that never knows The sweetness of forgiving.

Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.

God is good and God is light In this faith I rest secure, Evil can but serve the right, Over all shall love endure.

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.

Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.

"I'm sorry that I spell'd the word I hate to go above you Because" - the brown eyes lower fell - "Because you see I love you!"

"Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said.

Before me, even as behind, God is, and all is well.

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

For of all sad words of tongues or pen the saddest are these: It might have been.

We search the world for truth; we cull The good, the pure, the beautiful, From all old flower fields of the soul; And, weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

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.

The child must teach the man.

If woman lost us Eden, such As she alone restore it.

What miracle of weird transforming Is this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite?

Thine to work as well as pray, Clearing thorny wrongs away; Plucking up the weeds of sin, Letting heaven's warm sunshine in.