Winning isn’t everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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More quotes from William C. Bryant
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Winning isn’t everything, but it beats anything in second place.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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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.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings.
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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.
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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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.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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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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Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness – a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster – children into strength and athletic proportion.
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A stable, changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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The groves were God’s first temples.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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