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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
Yoked
Tormentor
Pale
Hath
Guilt
Misery
More quotes by William C. Bryant
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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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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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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The groves were God's first temples.
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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
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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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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.
William C. Bryant
Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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