William Cullen Bryant

(November 3, 1794 – June 12, 1878 / Boston)

William Cullen Bryant Poems

1. Robert Of Lincoln 5/21/2015
2. The Wind And Stream 2/9/2015
3. Among The Trees 3/27/2015
4. The Planting Of The Apple-Tree 12/24/2014
5. The Knight's Epitaph 4/5/2010
6. The Old Man's Counsel 4/5/2010
7. The Maiden's Sorrow 4/5/2010
8. The Return Of Youth 4/5/2010
9. The Two Graves 4/5/2010
10. Song From The Spanish Of Iglesias 4/5/2010
11. The Arctic Lover 4/5/2010
12. The Massacre At Scio 4/5/2010
13. The Indian Girl's Lament 4/5/2010
14. The Damsel Of Peru 4/5/2010
15. Mary Magdalen 4/5/2010
16. Noon 4/5/2010
17. The Death Of Aliatar 4/5/2010
18. The Twenty-Second Of December 4/5/2010
19. The Siesta 4/5/2010
20. The Death Of Schiller 4/5/2010
21. Romero 4/5/2010
22. The Count Of Griers 4/5/2010
23. Song Of The Greek Amazon 4/5/2010
24. The Conqueror’s Grave 4/5/2010
25. No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre 4/5/2010
26. I Cannot Forget With What Fervid Devotion 4/5/2010
27. In Memory Of John Lothrop Motley 4/5/2010
28. The Hunter's Serenade 4/5/2010
29. Lines On Revisiting The Country 4/5/2010
30. Song 4/5/2010
31. The Painted Cup 4/5/2010
32. Rizpah 4/5/2010
33. Hymn Of The Waldenses 4/5/2010
34. The Fountain 4/5/2010
35. The Evening Wind 4/5/2010
36. The Hunter Of The Prairies 4/5/2010
37. Life Of The Blessed 4/5/2010
38. The Green Mountain Boys 4/5/2010
39. The Burial Place 4/5/2010
40. The Antiquity Of Freedom 4/5/2010
Best Poem of William Cullen Bryant


To him who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--
Go forth, under the ...

Read the full of Thanatopsis

The Death Of The Flowers

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's tread;
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a b

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