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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Men
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Maidens
Soft
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Always
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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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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The groves were God's first temples.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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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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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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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?
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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.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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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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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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