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The groves were God's first temples.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Temples
Forests
Tree
Nature
Groves
Firsts
Supplication
First
Incense
Grove
Cathedrals

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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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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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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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Heed not the night A summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'Tis mantled by the vine.
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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.
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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.
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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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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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The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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