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The groves were God's first temples.

William C. Bryant

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

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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
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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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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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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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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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Follow thou thy choice.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
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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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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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