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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Fall
Equinox
Nature
Loveliest
Years
Autumn
Seasons
Smile
Year
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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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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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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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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Follow thou thy choice.
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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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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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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 February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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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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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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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way.
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