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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Perpetual
Desolation
Streams
Rolls
Borders
Strands
Rocks
Dreary
Adorns
Flower
Border
Wormwood
Land
Sigh
Strand
Stream
Moan
Passes
Wildly

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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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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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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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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
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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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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
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