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

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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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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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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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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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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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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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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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