FastSaying
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
William Cullen Bryant
Art
Poetry
Smile
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The stormy March has come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue. . . .
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All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.
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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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And wrath has left its scar -- that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.
— William Cullen Bryant
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