William C. Bryant Quotes
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Thine 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.
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Heed not the night; A summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'Tis mantled by the vine.
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The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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The victory of endurance born.
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Lay down the axe; fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.
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It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass; There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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