Charles Hice

Rookie (May 13 2004 / Heaven)

32 Hystery 32 - Poem by Charles Hice

32 Hystery 32

32 Hystery 32
William Cullen Bryant

The Death of the Flowers by William Cullen Bryant
The melancholy days 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 light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are 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,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we 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.Flowers Fade
I saw the flowers on the roadside,
they were all so pretty to me;
they seemed permanent to me,
But snow will frown-
wind and rain and sun.
The flowers are all gone.
Now we will have our fun we both seem to have said the same thing in our poems so today we visit the history of Bryant. We pause here to quote Bryant's wish that he might die 'in flowery June When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound; ' and to remark that in that beautiful month he passed to his rest. The enormity of mye head was always a problem my father dipped me for many days in the cold water stream near the house we lived. Slaves were everywhere in the city proper no one noticed them they were not even human they were slaves. A poet eye become. The five and dime printer on the corner was not happy to see me a lawyer eye had passed the bar with flying colors and eye tossed the bag of money on the counter as iff eye was the poor man made rich and let out of prison for stealing just one loaf of bread to eat the bread and water of the jailor no more but meat and steaks and hearts Cheshire a man of means twold make account eye wanted paper ink and doubt. A poet eye become. In 1829 eye ran the paper al of myself mostly alone. Evening Post afforded me the best place to publish all mye poetry. In June,1836, Bryant defended the striking Society of Journeyman Tailors by linking the issue with slavery: 'They are condemned because they are determined not to work for the wages offered them. If this is not slavery, we have forgotten its definition.' Eye loved the summer flowers best and August was a test of hearts and minds mye rather large ego was always available for summer fruit and festival but solace and liaisons purported to be mine can only now be found in Hystery the mystery of time has shrouded all eye done as William Cullen Bryant poet esclauded. Do not believe the slave-owners in there haste to sulley nammes eye only rather loved the forest not enought to live forever but to be buried in the summer after spring was over and the flowers faded there the wind flower and the violet when eye was William Cullen Bryant.

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, October 8, 2008

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