A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

William C. Bryant
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Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

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Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.

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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

William C. Bryant
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

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The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

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Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

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The groves were God's first temples.

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