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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Many
Scenes
Flushed
Autumn
Hues
Woods
Hue
Winter
Splendor
Fruit
Fruits
Summer
Brighter
Scene
Boast
Splendors
Beyond
Gorgeous
Boasts

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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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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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Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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The right to discuss freely and openly, by speech, by the pen, by the press, all political questions, and to examine the animadvert upon all political institutions is a right so clear and certain, so interwoven with our other liberties, so necessary, in fact, to their existence, that without it we must fall into despotism and anarchy.
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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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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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