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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
Blow
Fail
Bide
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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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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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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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.
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Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
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The victory of endurance born.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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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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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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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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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
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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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