Henry van Dyke

Christ never asks us to give up merely for the sake of giving up, but always in order to win something better.

No amount of energy will take the place of thought.

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling splash of rain. If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence.
To break the endless song. If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.

God said, “I am tired of kings,”—
But that was a long while ago!
And meantime man said, “No,—
I like their looks in their robes and rings.”
So he crowned a few more,
And they went on playing the game as before,
Fighting and spoiling things. Man said, “I am tired of kings!
Sons of the robber-chiefs of yore,
They make me pay for their lust and their war;
I am the puppet, they pull the strings;
The blood of my heart is the wine they drink.
I will govern myself for awhile I think,
And see what that brings!” Then God, who made the first remark,
Smiled in the dark.

He that planteth a tree is the servant of God,
He provideth a kindness for many generations,
And faces that he hath not seen shall bless him.

The promotion from all-day picnics to a two weeks' camping-trip is like going from school to college.

I heard through the night
The rush and the clamour;
The pulse of the fight
Like blows of Thor's hammer;
The pattering flight
Of the leaves, and the anguished
Moan of the forest vanquished.

For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the animal kingdom that is comparable to a river.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
The regiments of autumn stood:
I saw their gold and scarlet glowing
From every hillside, every wood.

I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

But often faltering feet
Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet
The sunrise of the soul.

Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul.

I know that Europe’s wonderful, yet something seems to lack;
The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.

How often a man has cause to return thanks for the enthusiasms of his friends! They are the little fountains that run down from the hills to refresh the mental desert of the despondent.

Time Is...
Too slow for those who wait,
Too swift for those who fear,
Too long for those who grieve,
Too short for those who rejoice,
But for those who love,
Time is Eternity. (Music and Other Poems, 1904)