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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
Gloom

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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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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.
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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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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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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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