William Cullen Bryant

The moon is at her full, and riding high,
Floods the calm fields with light.
The airs read more

The moon is at her full, and riding high,
Floods the calm fields with light.
The airs that hover in the summer sky
Are all asleep to-night.

And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
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Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised?

No trumpet-blast profound
The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born;
No bloody streamlet stained
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No trumpet-blast profound
The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born;
No bloody streamlet stained
Earth's silver rivers on the sacred morn.

Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its read more

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.