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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
Overflow
Gladness
Pauses
Tender
Weak
Words
Speak

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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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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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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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Follow thou thy choice.
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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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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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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.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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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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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
William C. Bryant
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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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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