William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant
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an American romantic poet, journalist, and long-time editor of the New York Evening Post.

Bryant was born on November 3, 1794, in a log cabin near Cummington, Massachusetts; the home of his birth is today marked with a plaque. He was the second son of Peter Bryant, a doctor and later a state legislator, and Sarah Snell. His maternal ancestry traces back to passengers on the Mayflower; his father's, to colonists who arrived about a dozen years later.

Bryant and his family moved to a new home when he was two years old. The William Cullen Bryant Homestead, his boyhood home, is now a museum. After just two years at Williams College, he studied law in Worthington and ... more »

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William Cullen Bryant Quotations

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  • ''Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness—a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster-children into strength and athletic proportion.''
    William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), U.S. poet, editor. Speech, December 15, 1851.
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Comments about William Cullen Bryant

  • isac123 (9/24/2019 3:17:00 PM)

    my ­n­e­i­g­h­b­or's s­ist­er-­i­n-­l­Aw ­m­A­k­es $88 ­ev­ery ­h­our ­o­n t­h­e ­l­A­pt­o­p. S­h­e ­h­As ­b­e­e­n ­f­ir­e­d ­fr­o­m w­or­k ­f­or ­n­i­n­e ­m­o­nt­hs ­but ­l­Ast ­m­o­nt­h ­h­er ­i­n­e w­As $14634 just w­or­k­i­n­g ­o­n t­h­e ­l­A­pt­o­p ­f­or ­A ­f­ew ­h­ours. R­e­A­d ­m­or­e ­o­n t­h­is s­it­e ­g­o t­o t­h­is s­it­e ­h­o­m­e t­A­b ­f­or ­m­or­e ­d­et­A­i­l HERE======►► www.more.cash61.com ★★★COPY THIS SITE★★★

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  • Codee (5/10/2018 4:14:00 PM)

    It is a creole asking

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  • stine (4/28/2018 7:32:00 PM)

    tell me not a mournful number, life is but a empty dream, for the soul is dead that slumbers and life is not what it seems

    5 person liked.
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Best Poem of William Cullen Bryant

To A Waterfowl

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sing
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air-- ...

Read the full of To A Waterfowl