William C. Bryant
Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
William C. BryantPain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
William C. BryantAh, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
William C. BryantPoetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
William C. BryantThe rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
William C. BryantThey talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
William C. BryantA sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
William C. BryantAnd suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
William C. BryantThine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
William C. BryantDifficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
William C. BryantTo him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
William C. BryantWeep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
William C. BryantThe groves were God's first temples.
William C. BryantThe February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
William C. BryantAll that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
William C. BryantWild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.
William C. BryantEloquence is the poetry of prose.
William C. BryantThe little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
William C. Bryant
