I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear. — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours? — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs… — 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
Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That… — 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
