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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
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More quotes by William C. Bryant
Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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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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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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
William C. Bryant
The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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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.
William C. Bryant
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
William C. Bryant
Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
William C. Bryant
The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
William C. Bryant