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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
Fall
Autumn
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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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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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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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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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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