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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Pride
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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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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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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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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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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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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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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Heed not the night A summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'Tis mantled by the vine.
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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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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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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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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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