Quotes
Quotes - Lowell
The idol is the measure of the worshipper.
In life's small things be resolute and great To keep thy muscle trained: knowst thou when Fate Thy measure takes, or when she'll say to thee, "I find thee worthy; do this deed for me?"
There is no self-delusion more fatal than that which makes the conscience dreamy with the anodyne of lofty sentiments, while the life is groveling and sensual.
A man must be sacrificed now and again To provide for the next generation of men.
A sneer is the weapon of the weak.
So we're all right, an' I, for one, Don't think our cause'll lose in vally By rammin' Scriptur' in our gun, An' gittin' Natur' for an ally.
Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow.
Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint.
It is by presence of mind in untried emergencies that the native metal of man is tested.
Sentiment is intellectualized emotion; emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.
Sentiment is intellectualized emotion; emotion precipitated, as it were, in pretty crystals by the fancy.
They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; . . . . They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.
The Don Quixote of one generation may live to hear himself called the savior of society by the next.
Nursed by stern men with empires in their brains.
In general those who nothing have to say Contrive to spend the longest time in doing it.
Of my merit On that pint you yourself may jedge: All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.
The traitor to Humanity is the traitor most accursed; Man is more than Constitutions; better rot beneath the sod, Than be true to Church and State while we are doubly false to God.
The greatest homage we can pay to truth, is to use it.
In creating, the only hard thing is to begin: a grass blade's no easier to make than an oak.
Winds wanders, and dews drip earthward; Rains fall, suns rise and set; Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
Violet! sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years?
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went.
The purely Great Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.
Oh, Washington! thou hero, patriot sage, Friend of all climes, and pride of every age!
