Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

The Summer Day Is Closed - The Sun Is Set: Well They Have Done Their Office, Those Bright Hours, The Latest Of Whose Train Goes Softly Out In The Red West. The Green Blade Of The Ground Has Risen, And Herds Have Cropped It; The Young Twig Has Spread Its Plaited Tissues To The Sun; Flowers Of The Garden And The Waste Have Blown And Withered; Seeds Have Fallen Upon The Soil, From Bursting Cells, And In Their Graves Await Their Resurrection. Insects From The Pools Have Filled The Air Awhile With Humming Wings, That Now Are Still For Ever; Painted Moths Have Wandered The Blue Sky, And Died Again

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

[thanatopsis] Was Written In 1817, When Bryant Was 23. Had He Died Then, The World Would Have Thought It Had Lost A Great Poet. But He Lived On.