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The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Spring
Gathering
Flower
Stolen
Sweet
Twilight
Rooms
Breath
Hours
Breaths
Comes
Hour
Sweets
Many
Silent
Springtime
Bears
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
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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.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
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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 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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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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