“
These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths, Wanting the benison death has made divine.
— Lucy Larcom
poet, writer, teacher
1824 – 1893
These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths, Wanting the benison death has made divine.
Oh, her heart’s adrift with oneHannah’s at the window binding shoes.
I do not own an inch of land, The lawns and gardens fine.
Richer am I than he who owns Across that outlet blue.
Sometimes they seem like living shapes, — As one by one draws nigh.
A part is greater than the whole; I reach out for and hold.
Here sit I, as a little child; Some sea-like glimpse of Thee.
I believe the best poetry of our times is growing too artistic; the study is too visible. If freedom and naturalness are lost out of poetry, everything worth having is lost.
Sometimes it seems to me that God's way of dealing with me is not to let me see much of my friends, those who are most to me in the spiritual life, lest I should forget that the invisible bond is the only reality. That is the only way I can reconcile myself to the inevitable separations of life and death.
O Mariner-soul, Forever to be won.
From the first opening of our eyes, it is the light that attracts us. We clutch aimlessly with our baby fingers at the gossamer-motes in the sunbeam, and we die reaching out after an ineffable blending of earthly and heavenly beauty which we shall never fully comprehend.
A drop of water, if it could write out its own history, would explain the universe to us.
The curse of covetousness is that it destroys manhood by substituting money for character.
From the first opening of our eyes, it is the light that attracts us. We clutch aimlessly with our baby fingers at the gossamer-motes in the sunbeam, and we die reaching out after an ineffable blending of earthly and heavenly beauty which we shall never fully comprehend.
Whether rich or poor, a home is not a home unless the roots of love are ever striking deeper through the crust of the earthly and the conventional, into the very realities of being, not consciously always; seldom, perhaps; the simplicity of loving grows by living simply near nature and God.
A drop of water, if it could write out its own history, would explain the universe to us.
If the world seems cold to you, kindle fires to warm it.
A friend is a beloved mystery; dearest always because he is not ourself, and has something in him which it is impossible for us to fathom. If it were not so, friendship would lose its chief zest.
The curse of covetousness is that it destroys manhood by substituting money for character.
