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The groves were God's first temples.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Grove
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Groves
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Supplication

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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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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Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
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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 sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
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The victory of endurance born.
William C. Bryant
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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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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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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
William C. Bryant
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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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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!
William C. Bryant
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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
William C. Bryant
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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?
William C. Bryant
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
William C. Bryant
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
William C. Bryant
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
William C. Bryant