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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
Flower
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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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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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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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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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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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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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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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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!
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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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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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