William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

81. Catterskill Falls 4/5/2010
82. The Fountain 4/5/2010
83. The Flood Of Years 4/5/2010
84. The Evening Wind 4/5/2010
85. The Lapse Of Time 4/5/2010
86. Song Of The Stars 4/5/2010
87. An Indian Story 4/5/2010
88. The Rivulet 4/5/2010
89. The Prairies 4/5/2010
90. Fatima And Raduan 4/5/2010
91. The Waning Moon 4/5/2010
92. The Living Lost 1/3/2003
93. A Scene At The Banks Of The Hudson 4/5/2010
94. The West Wind 1/3/2003
95. The White-Footed Deer 4/5/2010
96. Earth 4/5/2010
97. A Summer Ramble 4/5/2010
98. The Future Life 4/5/2010
99. Green River 4/5/2010
100. West Wind, The 12/31/2002
101. The Disinterred Warrior 4/5/2010
102. The Skies 1/3/2003
103. An Indian At The Burial-Place Of His Fathers. 4/5/2010
104. A Northern Legend 4/5/2010
105. A Hymn Of The Sea 4/5/2010
106. America 4/5/2010
107. The Strange Lady 1/3/2003
108. A Walk At Sunset 4/5/2010
109. Autumn Woods 4/5/2010
110. A Presentiment 4/5/2010
111. Hymn Of The City 1/3/2003
112. Life Of The Blessed 4/5/2010
113. The African Chief 4/5/2010
114. Spring In Town 12/31/2002
115. A Song Of Pitcairn's Island 12/31/2002
116. June 1/3/2003
117. The Constellations 1/3/2003
118. To The Fringed Gentian 12/31/2002
119. To Cole, The Painter, Departing For Europe 4/5/2010
120. Living Lost, The 12/31/2002

Comments about William Cullen Bryant

  • 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

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 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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