William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

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