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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Flight
Errors
Driven
Shapes
Survives
Truth
Fade
Earth
Monstrous
Fades
Error

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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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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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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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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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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The victory of endurance born.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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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.
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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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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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 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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