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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Year
October
Death
Smiles
Years
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Grow
Suns
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Meek

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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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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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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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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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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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