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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.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
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More quotes by William C. Bryant
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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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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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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The right to discuss freely and openly, by speech, by the pen, by the press, all political questions, and to examine the animadvert upon all political institutions is a right so clear and certain, so interwoven with our other liberties, so necessary, in fact, to their existence, that without it we must fall into despotism and anarchy.
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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The groves were God's first temples.
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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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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
William C. Bryant
Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!
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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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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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