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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
Fail
Bide
Failing
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Fairs
Fair
Thou
Blow

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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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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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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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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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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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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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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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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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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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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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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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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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