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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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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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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.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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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Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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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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