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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. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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That make the meadows green and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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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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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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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
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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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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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