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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Rays
Welcome
Horror
Dreams
Fiercest
Morning
Agonies
Peace
Shortest
Comes
Agony
Dream
Reign

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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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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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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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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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
William C. Bryant
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
William C. Bryant
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
William C. Bryant
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Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
William C. Bryant
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The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
William C. Bryant
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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant