Lucy Larcom

O Mariner-soul, Thy quest is but begun, There are new worlds Forever to be won.

a man like this is the best proof God ever gives human beings of their own immortality.

Where he is, life must be. He lived only in realities here, and he is entering into the heart of them now.

The noblest of men and friends has left the world, — Phillips Brooks.

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 …

Much of our Christianity is not of a sufficiently enlarged type to satisfy an educated Hindoo

the loss of ennobling aspirations, of the love of all good, of the power of seeing and seeking truth? And if this is possible to us now, by our own choice, why not forever? — since, as free beings, our choice must always be in our own …

The final renovation of all souls, their restoration to life in holiness and love, is certainly a hope of mine that is not without a strong infusion of confidence; but I dare not say it is a belief; because both reason and revelation have …

By making themselves believe that to be the all-important question, they draw off their own and others' attention from the really momentous one, — "Am I living the eternal life? Is it begun in me now?"

Eternal life and eternal death; what do these words mean?

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.

We are strange phenomena to ourselves, when we will stop to gaze at ourselves; but that I do not believe in; there are pleasanter subjects, and self is a mere speck on the great horizon of life.

What does cause depression of spirits? Heavy head and heavy heart, and no sufficient reason for either, that I know of.

Here sit I, as a little child; The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before.

By suns unsettling kist. Out through the utmost gates of space, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift, Yet loses not her anchorage

A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told. The fringes of eternity, — God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for and hold.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, — The people of the sky, — Guests in white raiment coming down From heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh.

Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze, To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees.

I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine, — The orchard and the mowing fields, The lawns and gardens fine.

Oh, her heart’s adrift with one On an endless voyage gone! Night and morning Hannah’s at the window binding shoes.

These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths, With dear companions now passed out of sight, Shall not be laid upon their graves. They live, Since love is deathless. Pleasure now nor pride Is theirs in mortal wise, but hallowing thoughts Will …

Earth is suffused, inhabited by heaven.

All things are beautiful Because of something lovelier than themselves, Which breathes within them, and will never die.

This is a haunted world. It hath no breeze But is the echo of some voice beloved