William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

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