Susan Fenimore Cooper

“ The sparkling dew-drops o’er the lilies play,
Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day.
If love and mirth your idle thoughts engage,
Attend, ye nymphs! a poet’s words are sage.
While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade!
The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb’s cheek appears,
When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears.
The charms of youth at once are seen and past,
And Nature says, “They are too sweet to last.”
So blooms the rose, and so the blushing maid—
Be gay: too soon the flowers of spring will fade! ”

“ If the men of the country are already disposed to redress existing grievances, where women are concerned, as we know them to be, and if they are also ready, as we know them to be, to forward all needful future development of true womanly action, what more, pray, can we reasonably ask of them? Where lies this dim necessity of thrusting upon women the burdens of the suffrage? And why should the entire nation be thrown into the perilous convulsions of a revolution more truly formidable than any yet attempted on earth? ”

“ This little town itself must fall to decay and ruin; its streets must become choked with bushes and brambles; the farms of the valley must be anew buried within the shades of a wilderness; the wild deer and the wolf, and the bear, must return from beyond the great lakes; the bones of the savage men buried under our feet must arise and move again in the chase, ere trees like those, with the spirit of the forest in every line, can stand on the same ground in wild dignity of form like those old pines now looking down upon our homes. ”

“ That Nature vails; the fitful breeze
From the thick pine low murmuring draws,
Then dies in flutterings midst the trees.
The bee is slumbering in the thistle,
And, now and then, a broken whistle,
A tread—a hum—a tap—is heard
Through the dry leaves, in grass and bush,
As insect, animal, and bird
Rouse brief from their lethargic hush.
Then e’en these pleasant sounds would cease,
And a dread stillness all things lock:
The aspen seem like sculptured rock,
And not a tassel thread be shaken,
The monarch pine’s deep trance to waken,
And Nature settle prone in drowsy peace. ”

“ The grain-harvest has been given to Summer; of all its treasures, she preserves alone the fragrant buckwheat and the golden maize. The nobler fruits are all hers—the finer peaches and plums, the choicest apples, pears, and grapes. The homely, but precious root-harvest belongs to her—winter stores for man and his herds. And now, when the year is drawing to a close, when the blessings of the earth have been gathered and stored, when every tree and plant has borne its fruits, when every field has yielded its produce, why should the sun shine brightly now? ”

“ The busy bee, that round your listening ear
Murmurs with drowsy hum;
The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,
Moaning their mates’ sad doom.
And ever in the distance her sweet song
Murmurs lorn Philomel;
While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong
Her love and music well.
And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,
In whose bright limpid stream
The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,
Mirrored in one bright gleam.
And of the elm the hoar and silvery leaves,
The slumbering winds scarce blow,
Which, pictured in the bright and tremulous waves,
Follow their motion slow. ”

“ Even in a limited water-view, there is a flow of life, a ceaseless variety, which becomes a perpetual source of delight; every passing hour throws over the transparent countenance of the lake, or river, some fresh tint of coloring, calls up some new play of expression beneath the changing influences of the sun, the winds, the clouds, and we are all but cheated into the belief that the waters know something of the sorrows and joys of our own hearts; we turn to them with more than admiration—with the partiality with which we turn to the face of a friend. ”

“ Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature’s breast the spirit of her hues.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires—’tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep,
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ”

“ Of the infinite variety of fruits which spring from the bosom of the earth, the trees of the wood are the greatest in dignity. Of all the works of the creation which know the changes of life and death, the trees of the forest have the longest existence. Of all the objects which crown the gray earth, the woods preserve unchanged, throughout the greatest reach of time, their native character: the works of man are ever varying their aspect; his towns and his fields alike reflect the unstable opinions, the fickle wills and fancies of each passing generation ”

“ The melancholy tale is plain;
The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.
The sweet and silver-sandaled Dew,
Which, like a maiden, fed the flowers,
Hath waned into the beldame Frost,
And walked amid our bowers.
Some buds there were—sad hearts, be still!
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or lived, to tell
How sweetest things may die!
And some must blight where many bloom;
But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for spring or summer flowers,
Since winter gathers all?
He gathers all—but chide him not ”

“ Whatever your roving fancies may say, there is a virtue in constancy which has a reward above all that fickle change can bestow, giving strength and purity to every affection of life, and even throwing additional grace about the flowers which bloom in our native fields. We admire the strange and brilliant plant of the green-house, but we love most the simple flowers we have loved of old, which have bloomed many a spring, through rain and sunshine, on our native soil. ”