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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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William C. Bryant
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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.
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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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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
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The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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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.
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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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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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.
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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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