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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Around
Sigh
Melancholy
Distance
Air
Deep
Wind
Shrill
Sound
Wail
Night
Dwelling

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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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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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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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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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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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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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.
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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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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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