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.
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.
The victory of endurance born.
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