A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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.
Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine - 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
The groves were God's first temples.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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.
The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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.
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.
They talk of short-lived pleasures: be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were a cause indeed to weep.
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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