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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Flower
Fragrant
Fields
Blushing
Thousand
Brightest
Herbs
Meadows
Tufts
Roses
Aromatic
Rose
Trodden
Air
Lavender

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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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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.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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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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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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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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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.
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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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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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 temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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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.
William C. Bryant