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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.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
Black
Beside
Linger
Children
Echoes
Grove
Gathering
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Tawny
Tall
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Walnut
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Walnuts
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November
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Chestnuts
More quotes by William C. Bryant
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
William C. Bryant
Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
William C. Bryant
Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
William C. Bryant
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
William C. Bryant
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
William C. Bryant
I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
William C. Bryant
Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
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.
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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.
William C. Bryant
God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
William C. Bryant
Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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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.
William C. Bryant
Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
William C. Bryant
The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
William C. Bryant
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.
William C. Bryant
All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
William C. Bryant
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
William C. Bryant
Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
William C. Bryant