William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

81. My Autumn Walk 4/5/2010
82. Midsummer 4/5/2010
83. Life 4/5/2010
84. Love In The Age Of Chivalry 4/5/2010
85. A Scene At The Banks Of The Hudson 4/5/2010
86. Spring In Town 12/31/2002
87. The Skies 1/3/2003
88. June 1/3/2003
89. The Disinterred Warrior 4/5/2010
90. The Flood Of Years 4/5/2010
91. The Conjunction Of Jupiter And Venus 4/5/2010
92. The New Moon 4/5/2010
93. A Winter Piece 4/5/2010
94. A Presentiment 4/5/2010
95. A Walk At Sunset 4/5/2010
96. March 4/5/2010
97. The Crowded Street 4/5/2010
98. The Hunter's Vision 4/5/2010
99. The White-Footed Deer 4/5/2010
100. The Ages 4/5/2010
101. The Battle-Field 4/5/2010
102. The Hurricane 4/5/2010
103. The Strange Lady 1/3/2003
104. The Waning Moon 4/5/2010
105. The Journey Of Life 4/5/2010
106. A Song For New Year's Eve 12/5/2011
107. Earth 4/5/2010
108. Autumn Woods 4/5/2010
109. To The Fringed Gentian 12/31/2002
110. The Murdered Traveller 4/5/2010
111. October 12/31/2002
112. Living Lost, The 12/31/2002
113. The African Chief 4/5/2010
114. America 4/5/2010
115. Inscription For The Entrance To A Wood 1/3/2003
116. To Cole, The Painter, Departing For Europe 4/5/2010
117. Green River 4/5/2010
118. After A Tempest 1/3/2003
119. The Rivulet 4/5/2010
120. The Death Of Abraham Lincoln 4/5/2010

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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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