William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

1. Among The Trees 3/27/2015
2. The Wind And Stream 2/9/2015
3. Robert Of Lincoln 5/21/2015
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 Damsel Of Peru 4/5/2010
14. The Indian Girl's Lament 4/5/2010
15. Mary Magdalen 4/5/2010
16. The Hunter Of The Prairies 4/5/2010
17. Noon 4/5/2010
18. The Death Of Aliatar 4/5/2010
19. The Twenty-Second Of December 4/5/2010
20. The Siesta 4/5/2010
21. Ode For An Agricultural Celebration 4/5/2010
22. Romero 4/5/2010
23. The Count Of Griers 4/5/2010
24. The Love Of God 4/5/2010
25. Song Of The Greek Amazon 4/5/2010
26. The Child's Funeral 4/5/2010
27. The Conqueror’s Grave 4/5/2010
28. No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre 4/5/2010
29. I Cannot Forget With What Fervid Devotion 4/5/2010
30. In Memory Of John Lothrop Motley 4/5/2010
31. The Hunter's Serenade 4/5/2010
32. Lines On Revisiting The Country 4/5/2010
33. The Painted Cup 4/5/2010
34. The Arctic Lover 4/5/2010
35. Rizpah 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. Life Of The Blessed 4/5/2010
40. The Burial Place 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


Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes---but not for thine---
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the final hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come

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