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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
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More quotes by William C. Bryant
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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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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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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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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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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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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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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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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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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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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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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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
William C. Bryant