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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Dark
Guests
Night
Hide
Light
Evening
May
Grief
Come
Early
Troubled
Every
Rest
Guest
Joy
Compensation
Shall
Sunny

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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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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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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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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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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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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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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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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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