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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Loving
Breathed
Looked
Blossom
Glory
April
Joy
Fragrance
Stars
Breeze
Upon
Wander
Eye
Till
Star
Breezes

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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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Follow thou thy choice.
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The victory of endurance born.
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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