The Yellow Violet

WHEN beechen buds begin to swell,

And woods the blue-bird's warble know,

The yellow violet's modest bell

Peeps from last-year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,

Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume

Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring

First plant thee in the watery mould,

And I have seen thee blossoming

Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view

Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,

And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,

And earthward bent thy gentle eye,

Unapt the passing view to meet,

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,

Thy early smile has stayed my walk;

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May

I passed thee on thy humple stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget

The friends in darker fortunes tried;

I copied them--but I regret

That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour

Awakes the painted tribes of light,

I'll not o'er look the modest flower

That made the woods of April bright.

William Cullen Bryant

Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood

STRANGER, if thou hast learned a truth which needs

No school of long experience, that the world

Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen

Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,

To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood

And view the haunts of nature. The calm shade

Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze

That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm

To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men,

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse

Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,

But not in vengance. God hath yoked to guilt

Her pale tormentor, Misery. Hence these shades

Are still the abode of gladness; the thick roof

Of green and stirring branches is alive

And musical with birds, that sing and sport

In wantonness of spirit; while below

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade

Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam.

That waked them into life. Even the green trees

Partake the deep contentment; as they bend

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.

Scarce less the cleft-born wildflower seems to enjoy

Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves,

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees

That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude,

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,

With all their roots upon them, twisting high,

Breathe fixed tranquility. The rivulet

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice

In its own being. Softly tread the marge,

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,

Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

William Cullen Bryant

Mutation

THEY talk of short-lived pleasure--be it so--

Pain dies as quickly; stern, hard-featured pain

Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;

And after dreams of horror, comes again

The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

Makes the strong secret pangs of pain to cease:

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness;

Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release

His young limbs from the chains that round him press.

Weep not that the world changes--did it keep

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

William Cullen Bryant

Hymn of the City

NOT in the solitude

Alone may man commune with heaven, or see

Only in savage wood

And sunny vale, the present Deity;

Or only hear his voice

Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold

Thy steps, Almighty!--here, amidst the crowd,

Through the great city rolled,

With everlasting murmur deep and loud--

Choking the ways that wind

'Mongst the proud piles, the work of humankind.

Thy golden sunshine comes

From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,

And lights their inner homes;

For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies,

And givest them the stores

Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;

And this eternal sound--

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng--

Like the resounding sea,

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee.

And when the hours of rest

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,

Hushing its billowy breast--

The quiet of that moment too is thine;

It breathes of him who keeps

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.

William Cullen Bryant