To him who, in the love of Nature, holdsCommunion with her visible forms, she speaksA various language.
William Cullen Bryant
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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
- William Cullen Bryant -
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green.Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealingWith the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
- William Cullen Bryant -