William C. Bryant Quotes - Page 2

The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the first from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and glen.

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.

The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way.

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?

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.

Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

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.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

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.

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.