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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Fate
Rolls
Seem
Appointed
Struggle
Tides
Courses
Struggling
Course
Stream
Ends
Mighty
Eddies
Seems
Streams
Wayward
Life
Tend
Aimless

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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
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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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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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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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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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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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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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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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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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