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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Eternal
Among
Worshippers
Shall
Crushed
Dies
Wounded
Pain
Error
Truth
Errors
Earth
Rise
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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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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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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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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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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
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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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[Thanatopsis] was written in 1817, when Bryant was 23. Had he died then, the world would have thought it had lost a great poet. But he lived on.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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