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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Hath
Guilt
Misery
Yoked
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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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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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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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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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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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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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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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
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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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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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