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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
Breeze
Lonely
Blue
Flower
Race
Lasts
Last
Nods
Beauteous

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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
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Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering.
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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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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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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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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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