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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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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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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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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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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.
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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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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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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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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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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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