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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Wind
November
Days
Winds
Year
Melancholy
Fall
Autumn
Sear
Come
Brown
Sears
Years
Woods
Wailing
Sadness
Meadows
Naked
Saddest

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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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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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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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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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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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