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.
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.
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.
Source: A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson.
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