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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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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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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.
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The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
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