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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Keep
Hushed
Sabbath
Winds
Wind

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
William C. Bryant
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The victory of endurance born.
William C. Bryant
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
William C. Bryant
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
William C. Bryant
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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?
William C. Bryant
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
William C. Bryant
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
William C. Bryant
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
William C. Bryant
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
William C. Bryant