William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

41. The Antiquity Of Freedom 4/5/2010
42. Song Of Marion's Men 4/5/2010
43. The Greek Partisan 4/5/2010
44. Sonnet From The Portuguese Of Semedo 4/5/2010
45. The Battle-Field 4/5/2010
46. Seventy-Six 4/5/2010
47. Monument Mountain 4/5/2010
48. The Flood Of Years 4/5/2010
49. When The Firmament Quivers With Daylight's Young Beam 4/5/2010
50. The Hunter's Vision 4/5/2010
51. The Hurricane 4/5/2010
52. The Ages 4/5/2010
53. To The Apennines 4/5/2010
54. To The River Arve 4/5/2010
55. The Alcayde Of Molina 4/5/2010
56. The Stream Of Life 4/5/2010
57. Oh Fairest Of The Rural Maids 4/5/2010
58. The Serenade 4/5/2010
59. The Old Man's Funeral 4/5/2010
60. The Disinterred Warrior 4/5/2010
61. Version Of A Fragment Of Simonides 4/5/2010
62. Catterskill Falls 4/5/2010
63. The Evening Wind 4/5/2010
64. The Crowded Street 4/5/2010
65. The Burial Place 4/5/2010
66. From: An Evening Revery 4/5/2010
67. The Green Mountain Boys 4/5/2010
68. The Murdered Traveller 4/5/2010
69. Hymn To The North Star 4/5/2010
70. The Journey Of Life 4/5/2010
71. The New Moon 4/5/2010
72. The Rivulet 4/5/2010
73. The Conjunction Of Jupiter And Venus 4/5/2010
74. The Death Of Slavery 4/5/2010
75. My Autumn Walk 4/5/2010
76. Upon The Mountain's Distant Head 4/5/2010
77. The Death Of Abraham Lincoln 4/5/2010
78. Midsummer 4/5/2010
79. William Tell 4/5/2010
80. Life 4/5/2010

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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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