Unknown
William C. Bryant
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
William C. Bryant
Thou unrelenting past.
William C. Bryant
Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
William C. Bryant
They talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
William C. Bryant
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
William C. Bryant
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
William C. Bryant
The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
William C. Bryant
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
William C. Bryant
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
William C. Bryant
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.