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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
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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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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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.
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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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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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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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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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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
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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.
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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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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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