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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
Hypochondriac
Physician
Neurotic
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Medical
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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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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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
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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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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
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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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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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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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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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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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