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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
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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Tender pauses speak The overflow of gladness, When words are all too weak.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice Is that thou utterest while all else is still-- The ancient voice that, centuries ago, Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!
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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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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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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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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
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