William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

1. Robert Of Lincoln 5/21/2015
2. Among The Trees 3/27/2015
3. The Wind And Stream 2/9/2015
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 Massacre At Scio 4/5/2010
8. The Maiden's Sorrow 4/5/2010
9. The Return Of Youth 4/5/2010
10. The Past 4/5/2010
11. The Two Graves 4/5/2010
12. Song From The Spanish Of Iglesias 4/5/2010
13. The Arctic Lover 4/5/2010
14. The Damsel Of Peru 4/5/2010
15. The Indian Girl's Lament 4/5/2010
16. Noon 4/5/2010
17. Mary Magdalen 4/5/2010
18. The Hunter Of The Prairies 4/5/2010
19. The Death Of Aliatar 4/5/2010
20. The Twenty-Second Of December 4/5/2010
21. The Siesta 4/5/2010
22. The Death Of Schiller 4/5/2010
23. Ode For An Agricultural Celebration 4/5/2010
24. The Conqueror’s Grave 4/5/2010
25. The Child's Funeral 4/5/2010
26. Romero 4/5/2010
27. The Count Of Griers 4/5/2010
28. The Love Of God 4/5/2010
29. Song Of The Greek Amazon 4/5/2010
30. In Memory Of John Lothrop Motley 4/5/2010
31. No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre 4/5/2010
32. I Cannot Forget With What Fervid Devotion 4/5/2010
33. The Hunter's Serenade 4/5/2010
34. Lines On Revisiting The Country 4/5/2010
35. Song 4/5/2010
36. The Painted Cup 4/5/2010
37. Rizpah 4/5/2010
38. Hymn Of The Waldenses 4/5/2010
39. The Fountain 4/5/2010
40. The Evening Wind 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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