The Death of the Flowers a Poem by William Cullen Bryant

Hello this is Josiah Wolfe I'm posting a poem by William Cullen Bryant, one of my favorite poets.

                                                     The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy day are come the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter lights and softer airs a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! They are all in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
The're lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
The brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And when, comes calm mild day, as such days will come,
To call the squirrel and bee from out of their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky lights the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of the one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom who grew and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

By: William Cullen Bryant

Mr.Nobody (poem).

I like this poem very much, and it answers a lot of unanswered questions.

Mr. Nobody

Author: Unknown
I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody's house!
There's no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody

`Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pine afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For, prithee, don't you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody

The finger marked upon the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blind unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you. See
Are not our boots they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.

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