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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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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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That make the meadows green and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
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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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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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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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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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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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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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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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