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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Love
Mingling
Ivy
Rugged
Laurels
Sprays
Spray
Flowery
Climbs
Clasp
Trees
Laurel
Tree
Boughs

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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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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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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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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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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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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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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
William C. Bryant
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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
William C. Bryant
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
William C. Bryant