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

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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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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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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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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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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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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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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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