William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

81. The Death Of Abraham Lincoln 4/5/2010
82. The Death Of Aliatar 4/5/2010
83. The Death Of Lincoln 1/3/2003
84. The Death Of Schiller 4/5/2010
85. The Death Of Slavery 4/5/2010
86. The Death Of The Flowers 1/3/2003
87. The Disinterred Warrior 4/5/2010
88. The Evening Wind 4/5/2010
89. The Flood Of Years 4/5/2010
90. The Fountain 4/5/2010
91. The Future Life 4/5/2010
92. The Gladness Of Nature 1/3/2003
93. The Greek Boy 4/5/2010
94. The Greek Partisan 4/5/2010
95. The Green Mountain Boys 4/5/2010
96. The Hunter Of The Prairies 4/5/2010
97. The Hunter's Serenade 4/5/2010
98. The Hunter's Vision 4/5/2010
99. The Hurricane 4/5/2010
100. The Indian Girl's Lament 4/5/2010
101. The Journey Of Life 4/5/2010
102. The Knight's Epitaph 4/5/2010
103. The Lapse Of Time 4/5/2010
104. The Living Lost 1/3/2003
105. The Love Of God 4/5/2010
106. The Maiden's Sorrow 4/5/2010
107. The Massacre At Scio 4/5/2010
108. The Murdered Traveller 4/5/2010
109. The New Moon 4/5/2010
110. The Old Man's Counsel 4/5/2010
111. The Old Man's Funeral 4/5/2010
112. The Painted Cup 4/5/2010
113. The Past 4/5/2010
114. The Planting Of The Apple-Tree 12/24/2014
115. The Prairies 4/5/2010
116. The Return Of Youth 4/5/2010
117. The Rivulet 4/5/2010
118. The Serenade 4/5/2010
119. The Siesta 4/5/2010
120. The Skies 1/3/2003
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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