Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
William Cullen Bryant (1794 - 1878)
Source: Autumn Woods
Contributed by: Zaady
All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.
But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
Source: Autumn Woods.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
Source: The Death of the Flowers.
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.
The groves were God's first temples.
Source: A Forest Hymn.
The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
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.
Source: The Battle-Field.
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