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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Poppies
Blows
Fairs
Fair
Thou
Blow
Fail
Bide
Failing
Poppy

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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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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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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
William C. Bryant
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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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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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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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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Follow thou thy choice.
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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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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
William C. Bryant
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant