William Cullen Bryant

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

William Cullen Bryant Poems

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

Comments about William Cullen Bryant

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  • Codee (5/10/2018 4:14:00 PM)

    It is a creole asking

    4 person liked.
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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

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Best Poem of William Cullen Bryant

A Summer Ramble

The quiet August noon has come,
A slumberous silence fills the sky,
The fields are still, the woods are dumb,
In glassy sleep the waters lie.

And mark yon soft white clouds that rest
Above our vale, a moveless throng;
The cattle on the mountain's breast
Enjoy the grateful shadow long.

Oh, how unlike those merry hours
In early June when Earth laughs out,
When the fresh winds make love to flowers,
And woodlands sing and waters shout.

When in the grass sweet voices talk,
And strains of tiny music swell
From every moss-cup of the rock,
From ...

Read the full of A Summer Ramble

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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