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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
Flower
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Lying
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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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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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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
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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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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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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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The victory of endurance born.
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Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
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Follow thou thy choice.
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Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering.
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
William C. Bryant