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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
Empires
Holds
Vast
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More quotes by William C. Bryant
I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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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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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
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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 gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
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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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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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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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