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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Gentle
Flowers
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Lying
Lowly
Beds

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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way.
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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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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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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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The groves were God's first temples.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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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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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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