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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Prime
Fresh
Spring
Sweet
Year
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Still
Years
Blossoms

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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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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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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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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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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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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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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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Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!
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The groves were God's first temples.
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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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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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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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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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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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