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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
Truer
Maidens
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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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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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The victory of endurance born.
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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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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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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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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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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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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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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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