Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours? — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . . — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues That live among the clouds, and flush the air, Lingering, and deepening at the… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
A silence, the brief Sabbath of an hour, Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within His dwelling; he has left his… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The country ever has a lagging Spring, Waiting for May to call its violets forth, And June its roses-showers and sunshine bring,… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The summer day is closed - the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows; Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
A silence, the brief Sabbath of an hour, Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
