Quotes by Celia Thaxter - Page 1

One golden day redeems a weary year
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Happiness
Golden Days
Years
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There shall be an eternal summer in the grateful heart.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Inspirational
Grateful
Summer
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Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Dandelions
Ghost
Vanishing
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Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Comfort
Soul
Sunrise
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No sadder sound salutes you than the clear, Wild laughter of the loon.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Laughter
Salute
Sound
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It is curious that the leaf should so love the light and the root so hate it.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Hate
Light
Roots
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To stand by the beds at sunrise and see the flowers awake is a heavenly delight.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Bed
Flower
Sunrise
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Look to the East, where up the lucid sky; the morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Morning
East
Sky
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Like the musician, the painter, the poet and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Flower
Lovers
Musician
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I am fully and intensely aware that plants are conscious of love and respond to it as they do to nothing else.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Love
Awareness
Desire
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The eternal sound of the sea on every side has a tendency to wear away the edge of human thought and perception.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Ocean
Perception
Sea
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Peacefully The quiet stars came out, one after one; The holy twilight fell upon the sea, The summer day was done.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Stars
Summer
Twilight
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When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before any one is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Morning
Time
Garden
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Ever since I could remember anything, flowers have been like dear friends to me, comforters, inspirers, powers to uplift and to cheer.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Uplifting
Cheer
Flower
Remember
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This very act of planting a seed in the earth has in it to me something beautiful. I always do it with a joy that is largely mixed with awe.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Beautiful
Joy
Summer
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I wonder what spendthrift chose to spill Such a bright gold under my windowsill! Is it fair gold? Does it glitter still? Bless me! It's a daffodil!
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Doe
Glitter
Gold
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As I hold the flower in my hand and think of trying to describe it, I realize how poor a creature I am, how impotent are words in the presence of such perfection.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Beauty
Flower
Hands
Thinking
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Dear little head, that lies in calm content Within the gracious hollow that God made In every human shoulder, where He meant Some tired head for comfort should be laid.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Contentment
Lying
Tired
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When the snow is still blowing against the window-pane in January and February and the wild winds are howling without, what pleasure it is to plan for summer that is to be.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Healing
Summer
Winter
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It seems to me the worst of all the plagues is the slug, the snail without a shell. He is beyond description repulsive, a mass of sooty, shapeless slime, and he devours everything.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Animal
Shells
Slime
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The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm; At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped; With lulling murmur, and the air was warm, And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Night
Rain
Summer
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The toad has indeed no superior as a destroyer of noxious insects, and he possesses no bad habits and is entirely inoffensive himself, every owner of a garden should treat him with utmost hospitality.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Animal
Garden
Toads
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So deeply is the gardener's instinct implanted in my soul, I really love the tools with which I work; the iron fork, the spade, the hoe, the rake, the trowel, and the watering pot are pleasant objects in my eyes.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Love
Eye
Iron
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O happy, happy morning! O dear, familiar place! / O warm, sweet tears of Heaven, fast falling on my face! / O well-remembered, rainy wind, blow all my care away, / That I may be a child again this blissful morn of May.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Morning
Children
Sweet
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He who is born with a silver spoon in his mouth is generally considered a fortunate person, but his good fortune is small compared to that of the happy mortal who enters this world with a passion for flowers in his soul.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Flower
Garden
Passion
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Early in April, as I was vigorously hoeing in a corner, I unearthed a huge toad, to my perfect delight and satisfaction; he had lived all winter, he had doubtless fed on slugs all the autumn. I could have kissed him on the spot.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Life
Autumn
Winter
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O brief, bright smile of summer! O days divine and dear The voices of winter's sorrow Already we can hear. And we know that the frosts will find us, And the smiling skies grow rude, While we look in the face of Beauty, And worship her every mood.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Summer
Voice
Winter
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Last week, when I went early into my garden, a rose-breasted grosbeak was sitting on the fence. Oh, he was beautiful as a flower. I hardly dared to breathe, I did not stir, and we gazed at each other fully five minutes before he concluded to move.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Beautiful
Flower
Moving
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As I work among my flowers, I find myself talking to them, reasoning and remonstrating with them, and adoring them as if they were human beings. Much laughter I provoke among my friends by so doing, but that is of no consequence. We are on such good terms, my flowers and I.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Friendship
Flower
Laughter
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Like the musician, the painter, the poet, and the rest, the true lover of flowers is born, not made. And he is born to happiness in this vale of tears, to a certain amount of the purest joy that earth can giver her children, joy that is tranquil, innocent, uplifting, unfailing.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Happiness
Uplifting
Children
Flower
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Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry, The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Running
Beach
Hands
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If death were the exception and not the rule, and we were not so swiftly to follow, these separations would be intolerably sad. We know no more of our next change of life than we knew of this before we were born into it; but that which we call death is merely change, who can doubt?
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Doubt
Life Changing
Would Be
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Soon will set in the fitful weather, with fierce gales and sullen skies and frosty air, and it will be time to tuck up safely my roses and lillies and the rest for their winter sleep beneath the snow, where I never forget them, but ever dream of their wakening in happy summers yet to be.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Dream
Sleep
Summer
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The heart of God through his creation stirs, We thrill to feel it, trembling as the flowers That die to live again, his messengers, To keep faith firm in these sad souls of ours. The waves of Time may devastate our lives, The frosts of age may check our failing breath, They shall not touch the spirit that survives Triumphant over doubt and pain and death.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Flower
Heart
Pain
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Once more their weird laughter of the loons comes to my ear, the distance lends it a musical, melancholy sound. For a dangerous ledge off the lighthouse island floats in on the still air the gentle trolling of a warning bell as it swings on the rocking buoy; it might be tolling for the passing of summer and sweet weather with that persistent, pensive chime.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Laughter
Summer
Sweet
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Oh, I never meant, in my old age, to become subject to the thrall of a love like this; it is almost dreadful, so absorbing, so stirring down to the deeps. For the tiny creature is so old and wise and sweet, and so fascinating in his sturdy common sense and clear intelligence; and his affection for me is a wonderful, exquisite thing, the sweetest flower that has bloomed for me in all my life through.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Wise
Flower
Sweet
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When in these fresh mornings I go into my garden before anyone is awake, I go for the time being into perfect happiness. In this hour divinely fresh and still, the fair face of every flower salutes me with a silent joy. . . . All the cares, perplexities, and griefs of existence, all the burdens of life slip from my shoulders and leave me with the heart of a little child that asks nothing beyond the present moment of innocent bliss.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Morning
Children
Flower
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As the days go on toward July, the earth becomes dry and all the flowers begin to thirst for moisture. Then from the hillside, some warm, still evening, the sweet rain-song of the robin echoes clear, and next day we wake up to a dim morning; soft flecks of cloud bar the sun's way, fleecy vapors steal across the sky, the southwest wind blows lightly, rippling the water into little waves that murmur melodiously as they kiss the shore.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Song
Summer
Sweet
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Of all the wonderful things in the wonderful universe of God, nothing seems to me more surprising than the planting of a seed in the blank earth and the result thereof. Take that Poppy seed, for instance: it lies in your palm, the merest atom of matter, hardly visible, a speck, a pin's point in bulk, but within it is imprisoned a spirit of beauty ineffable, which will break its bonds and emerge from the dark ground and blossom in a splendor so dazzling as to baffle all powers of description.
Celia Thaxter / Writer
Beauty
Atoms
Dark
Lying
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