William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

121. The Death Of Lincoln 1/3/2003
122. Living Lost, The 12/31/2002
123. Inscription For The Entrance To A Wood 1/3/2003
124. Mutation 1/3/2003
125. To A Cloud 12/31/2002
126. A Dream 4/5/2010
127. Love And Folly 12/31/2002
128. Hymn To Death 12/31/2002
129. October 12/31/2002
130. The Yellow Violet 1/3/2003
131. A Song For New Year's Eve 12/5/2011
132. Constellations, The 12/31/2002
133. The Gladness Of Nature 1/3/2003
134. After A Tempest 1/3/2003
135. November 12/31/2002
136. A Winter Piece 4/5/2010
137. Summer Wind 1/3/2003
138. A Forest Hymn 1/3/2003
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

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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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