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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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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 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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
William C. Bryant
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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
William C. Bryant
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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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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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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
William C. Bryant
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
William C. Bryant
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
William C. Bryant
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The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
William C. Bryant