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.
quote by James Russell Lowell
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Reputation is only a candle, of wavering and uncertain flame, and easily blown out, but it is the light by which the world looks for and finds merit.
quote by James Russell Lowell
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
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.
quote by James Russell Lowell
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
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.
quote by James Russell Lowell
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
We live in oppressive times. We have, as a nation, become our own thought police but instead of calling the process by which we limit our expression of dissent and wonder 'censorship,' we call it 'concern for commercial viability.'
quote by James Russell Lowell
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
For an Autograph
THOUGH old the thought and oft exprest,
'Tis his at last who says it best,
I'll try my fortune with the rest.
Life is a leaf of paper white
Whereon each one of us may write
His word or two, and then comes night.
'Lo, time and space enough,' we cry,
'To write an epic! ' so we try
Our nibs upon the edge, and die.
Muse not which way the pen to hold,
Luck hates the slow and loves the bold,
Soon come the darkness and the cold.
Greatly begin! though thou have time
But for a line, be that sublime,
Not failure, but low aim, is crime.
Ah, with what lofty hope we came!
But we forget it, dream of fame,
And scrawl, as I do here, a name.
poem by James Russell Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
A Fable For Critics
Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
[...] Read more
poem by James Russell Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
