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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
Rugged
Laurels
Sprays
Spray
Flowery
Climbs
Clasp
Trees
Laurel
Tree
Boughs
Love
Mingling
Ivy

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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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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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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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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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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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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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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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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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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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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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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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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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