Best 37 quotes of Edgar Lee Masters on MyQuotes

A giant as we hoped, in truth, a dwarf; A barrel of slop that shines on Lethe's wharf', Which at first seemed a vessel with sweet wine For thirsty lips. So down the swift decline You went through sloven spirit, craven heart And cynic indolence. And here the art Of molding clay has caught you for the nonce And made your shame our shame ~ Your head in bronze!

And I never started to plow in my life That some one did not stop in the road And take me away to a dance or picnic. I ended up with forty acres; I ended up with a broken fiddle— And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, And not a single regret.

Beware of the man who rises to power from one suspender.

Genius is a bend in the creek where bright water has gathered, and which mirrors the trees, the sky and the banks. It just does that because it is there and the scenery is there. Talent is a fine mirror with a silver frame, with the name of the owner engraved on the back.

He stripped off the armor of institutional friendships To dedictate his soul To the terrible deities of Truth and Beauty.

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea. And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence for which music alone finds the word.

Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.

In time you shall see Fate approach youIn the shape of your own image in the mirror;Or you shall sit alone by your own hearth,And suddenly the chair by you shall hold a guest,And you shall know that guest,And read the authentic message of his eyes.

It takes life to love life.

Many books have been written to show that Christianity has emasculated the world, that it shoved aside the enlightenment and wisdom of Hellas for a doctrine of superstition and ignorance.

O maternal earth which rocks the fallen leaf to sleep!

Such phantom blossoms palely shining Over the lifeless boughs of Time.

The dust's for crawling, heaven's for flying, Wherefore, O Soul, whose wings are grown, Soar upward to the sun!

The earth keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. And if the people find you can fiddle, why fiddle you must, for all your life.

The mind sees the world as a thing apart,   And the soul makes the world at one with itself.   A mirror scratched reflects no image—   And this is the silence of wisdom.

the much-sought prize of eternal youth Is just arrested growth.

There is the silence of age, too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it in words intelligible to those who have not lived the great range of life.

The snows and the roses of yesterday are vanished; And what is love but a rose that fades?

The soul of the river had entered my soul, And the gathered power of my soul was moving So swiftly, it seemed to be at rest Under cities of cloud and under Spheres of silver and changing worlds Until I saw a flash of trumpets Above the battlements over Time!

The spiritual kinship between Lincoln and Whitman was founded upon their Americanism, their essential Westernism. Whitman had grown up without much formal education; Lincoln had scarcely any education. One had become the notable poet of the day; one the orator of the Gettsyburg Address. It was inevitable that Whitman as a poet should turn with a feeling of kinship to Lincoln, and even without any association or contact feel that Lincoln was his.

The tongue may be an unruly member-- But silence poisons the soul.

The Typical American? He is sent to school Little or much, where he imbibes the rule Of safety first and comfort; in his youth He joins the church and ends the quest of truth.

. . . the weal of the race, and the cause of humanity, here and now, are enough To give life meaning and death as well.

This is a man with an old face, always old... There was pathos, in his face, and in his eyes. The early weariness; and sometimes tears in his eyes, Which he let slip unconsciously on his cheek, Or brushed away with an unconcerned hand. There were tears for human suffering, or for a glance Into the vast futility of life, Which he had seen from the first, being old When he was born.

This is Darrow, Inadequately scrawled, with his young, old heart, And his drawl, and his infinite paradox And his sadness, and kindness, And his artist sense that drives him to shape his life To something harmonious, even against the schemes of God.

Those who first oppose a good work, seize it and make it their own, when the cornerstone is laid and memorial tablets are erected.

To love is to find your own soul Through the soul of the beloved one.

What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you— It takes life to love Life.

Why, a moral truth is a hollow tooth Which must be propped with gold.

Work for your own soul's sake.

Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Che cosa vedi adesso? [...] Luce, solo luce, che trasforma tutto il mondo in giocattolo. Molto bene, faremo gli occhiali così.

EMILY SPARKS Dov'è il mio bambino, il mio bambino - in quale remota parte del mondo? il bambino che a scuola amavo più di tutti?- Io, la maestra, la vecchia zitella, il vergine cuore, che li sentivo tutti miei figli. M'ingannai col mio bambino a giudicarlo uno spirito ardente, attivo, mai pago? Oh bambino, bambino, per cui pregai e pregai in tante ore di veglia la notte, ricordi la lettera che ti scrissi sulla bellezza dell'amore di Cristo? E che tu che l'abbia ricevuta o no, bambino mio, dovunque tu sia, opera per la salvezza dell'anima tua, che tutto il fango, tutta la feccia in te, ceda finalmente al fuoco che è in te, finché il fuoco sia solo luce!... Solo luce!

I have studied many times The marble which was chiseled for me— A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor. In truth it pictures not my destination But my life. For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment; Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid; Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances. Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life. And now I know that we must lift the sail And catch the winds of destiny Wherever they drive the boat. To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness, But life without meaning is the torture Of restlessness and vague desire— It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

In time you shall see Fate approach you In the shape of your own image in the mirror.

My name used to be in the papers daily As having dined somewhere, Or traveled somewhere, Or rented a house in Paris, Where I entertained the nobility. I was forever eating or traveling, Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden. Now I am here to do honor To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang. No one cares now where I dined, Or lived, or whom I entertained, Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden!

Remember the acorn; It does not devour other acorns.