William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

121. The Skies 1/3/2003
122. The Strange Lady 1/3/2003
123. The Stream Of Life 4/5/2010
124. The Twenty-Second Of December 4/5/2010
125. The Two Graves 4/5/2010
126. The Waning Moon 4/5/2010
127. The West Wind 1/3/2003
128. The White-Footed Deer 4/5/2010
129. The Wind And Stream 2/9/2015
130. The Winds 4/5/2010
131. The Yellow Violet 1/3/2003
132. To A Cloud 12/31/2002
133. To A Waterfowl 1/3/2003
134. To Cole, The Painter, Departing For Europe 4/5/2010
135. To The Apennines 4/5/2010
136. To The Fringed Gentian 12/31/2002
137. To The River Arve 4/5/2010
138. Upon The Mountain's Distant Head 4/5/2010
139. Version Of A Fragment Of Simonides 4/5/2010
140. West Wind, The 12/31/2002
141. When The Firmament Quivers With Daylight's Young Beam 4/5/2010
142. William Tell 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 ...

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Consumption

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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