A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
From William C. Bryant
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.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
The groves were God's first temples.
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; 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.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
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 tonight.
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