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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Bright
Thou
Blue
Heaven
Dew
Blossom
Colored
Autumn

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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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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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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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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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