Quotes
Quotes - Bryant
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?
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings.
The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
The groves were God's first temples.
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.
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 melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
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.
The victory of endurance born.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,--
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness --a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster-children into strength and athletic proportion.
What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.
When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multiple OF golden chalices to humming birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggarts and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Weep not that the world changes--did it keep A stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
Weep not that the world changesâdid it keep a stable, changeless state, it were a cause indeed to weep.
No trumpet-blast profound The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; No bloody streamlet stained Earth's silver rivers on the sacred morn.
