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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Weak
Words
Speak
Overflow
Gladness
Pauses
Tender

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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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The victory of endurance born.
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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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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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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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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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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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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 air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.
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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!
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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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