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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
Heaven
Dew
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More quotes by William C. Bryant
Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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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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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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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 hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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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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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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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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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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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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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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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
William C. Bryant