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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

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William C. Bryant
Come
Slowly
Woods
Verdure
Bird
Slack
Spring
Deepening
Singing
Foliage
Bring
Showers
Earth
Sunshine
Back
Birds

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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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The right to discuss freely and openly, by speech, by the pen, by the press, all political questions, and to examine the animadvert upon all political institutions is a right so clear and certain, so interwoven with our other liberties, so necessary, in fact, to their existence, that without it we must fall into despotism and anarchy.
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
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Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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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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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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[Thanatopsis] was written in 1817, when Bryant was 23. Had he died then, the world would have thought it had lost a great poet. But he lived on.
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