James Russell Lowell Quotes
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The only faith that wears well and holds its color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with the sharp mordant of experience.
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Sentiment is intellectualized emotion, - emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.
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A great man is made up of qualities that meet or make great occasions.
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There is no work of genius which has not been the delight of mankind, no word of genius to which the human heart and soul have not sooner or later responded.
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The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.
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They come transfigured back,Secure from change in their high-hearted ways,Beautiful evermore, and with the raysOf morn on their white Shields of Expectation!
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It's 'most enough to make a deacon swear.
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What men prize most is a privilege, even if it be that of chief mourner at a funeral.
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Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,First pledge of blithesome May,Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold.
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Solitude is as needful to the imagination as society is wholesome for the character.
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You've gut to git up airlyEf you want to take in God.
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Let us be of good cheer, however, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.
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Ye come and go incessant; we remainSafe in the hallowed quiets of the past;Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot,Of faith so nobly realized as this.
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Poetry is something to make us wiser and better, by continually revealing those types of beauty and truth, which God has set in all men's souls.
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Nature, they say, doth dote,And cannot make a manSave on some worn-out plan,Repeating us by rote.
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Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man;He’s ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-He’s ben true to one party, an’ thet is himself.
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Light is the symbol of truth.
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It is curious how tyrannical the habit of reading is, and what shifts we make to escape thinking. There is no bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own minds.
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A marciful Providunce fashioned us hollerO' purpose thet we might our principles swaller.
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The little that we doIs but half-nobly true;With our laborious hivingWhat men call treasure, and the gods call dross,Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving,Only secure in every one's conniving,A long account of nothings paid with loss.
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The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent moment.
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The child is not mine as the first was,I cannot sing it to rest,I cannot lift it up fatherlyAnd bliss it upon my breast;Yet it lies in my little one's cradleAnd sits in my little one's chair,And the light of the heaven she's gone toTransfigures its golden hair.
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A weed is no more than a flower in disguise, Which is seen through at once, if love give a man eyes.
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Zekle crep' up quite unbeknownAn' peeked in thru' the winder,An there sot Huldy all alone,'ith no one nigh to hender.