William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

121. Inscription For The Entrance To A Wood 1/3/2003
122. Mutation 1/3/2003
123. The Greek Boy 4/5/2010
124. To A Cloud 12/31/2002
125. A Dream 4/5/2010
126. Love And Folly 12/31/2002
127. October 12/31/2002
128. Hymn To Death 12/31/2002
129. The Yellow Violet 1/3/2003
130. A Song For New Year's Eve 12/5/2011
131. Constellations, The 12/31/2002
132. A Northern Legend 4/5/2010
133. After A Tempest 1/3/2003
134. November 12/31/2002
135. The Gladness Of Nature 1/3/2003
136. A Forest Hymn 1/3/2003
137. Summer Wind 1/3/2003
138. A Winter Piece 4/5/2010
139. The Death Of The Flowers 1/3/2003
140. To A Waterfowl 1/3/2003
141. Consumption 1/3/2003
142. Thanatopsis 5/13/2001

Comments about William Cullen Bryant

  • Codee (5/10/2018 4:14:00 PM)

    It is a creole asking

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • 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

Consumption

Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes---but not for thine---
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
And the vexed ore no mineral of power;
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the final hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come

[Report Error]