William Cullen Bryant

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

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?

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.