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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
Reign
Prisoner
Weary
Fiercest
Fierce
Agonies
Quickly
Shortest
Dies
Prisoners
Pain
Lets
Agony

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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
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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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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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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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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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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 little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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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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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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