James Russell Lowell Quotes
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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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The snow had begun in the gloaming,And busily all the nightHad been heaping field and highwayWith a silence deep and white.
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But John P.Robinson, heSez they did n't know everythin' down in Judee.
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Death is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light.
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It's 'most enough to make a deacon swear.
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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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The very room, coz she was in,Seemed warm from floor to ceilin'
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Compromise makes a good umbrella, but a poor roof; it is temporary expedient, often wise in party politics, almost sure to be unwise in statesmanship.
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Along A River-Side, I Know Not Where,I walked one night in mystery of dream;A chill creeps curdling yet beneath my hair,To think what chanced me by the pallid gleamOf a moon-wraith that waned through haunted air.
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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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I du believe with all my soulIn the gret Press's freedom,To pint the people to the goalAn' in the traces lead 'em.
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Great truths are portions of the soul of man;Great souls are portions of eternity.
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His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,But hern went pity-Zekle.
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Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
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Good luck is the willing handmaid of a upright and energetic character, and conscientious observance of duty.
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There is no price set on the lavish summer,And June may be had by the poorest comer.
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God, give us Peace! not such as lulls to sleep,But sword on thigh and brow with purpose knit!And let our Ship of State to harbor sweep,Her ports all up, her battle lanterns lit,And her leashed thunders gathering for their leap.
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Talent is that which is in a man's power; genius is that in whose power a man is.
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There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on;Whose prose is grand verse while his verse the Lord knowsIs some of it pr- No, 't is not even prose!
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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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One day with life and heartIs more than time enough to find a world.
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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.
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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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If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave? If ye do not feel the chain, When it works a brother's pain, Are ye not base slaves indeed, Slaves unworthy to be freed?