William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

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


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 Strange Lady

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by,
As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool dear sky;
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground.

A lovely woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight;
Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright;
She wears a tunic of the blue, her belt with beads is strung,
And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the

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