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 Massacre At Scio 4/5/2010
8. The Return Of Youth 4/5/2010
9. The Past 4/5/2010
10. The Two Graves 4/5/2010
11. Song From The Spanish Of Iglesias 4/5/2010
12. The Arctic Lover 4/5/2010
13. The Indian Girl's Lament 4/5/2010
14. The Maiden's Sorrow 4/5/2010
15. The Hunter Of The Prairies 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. Ode For An Agricultural Celebration 4/5/2010
21. Romero 4/5/2010
22. The Count Of Griers 4/5/2010
23. The Love Of God 4/5/2010
24. Song Of The Greek Amazon 4/5/2010
25. The Child's Funeral 4/5/2010
26. The Conqueror’s Grave 4/5/2010
27. No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre 4/5/2010
28. I Cannot Forget With What Fervid Devotion 4/5/2010
29. In Memory Of John Lothrop Motley 4/5/2010
30. The Hunter's Serenade 4/5/2010
31. Lines On Revisiting The Country 4/5/2010
32. Song 4/5/2010
33. The Painted Cup 4/5/2010
34. Rizpah 4/5/2010
35. The Damsel Of Peru 4/5/2010
36. Hymn Of The Waldenses 4/5/2010
37. The Fountain 4/5/2010
38. The Evening Wind 4/5/2010
39. Mary Magdalen 4/5/2010
40. Life Of The Blessed 4/5/2010
Best Poem of William Cullen Bryant

Thanatopsis

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 Living Lost

Matron! the children of whose love,
Each to his grave, in youth have passed,
And now the mould is heaped above
The dearest and the last!
Bride! who dost wear the widow's veil
Before the wedding flowers are pale!
Ye deem the human heart endures
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours.

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