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

William C. Bryant

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

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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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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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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 journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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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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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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The groves were God's first temples.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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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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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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