But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows; Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All… — 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
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 windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth; To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above… — William C. Bryant Copy Share Image
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly… — 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
