American Poet, Critic, Editor
William Cullen Bryant
American Poet, Critic, Editor
Ah, why should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore only among the crowd and under roofs that our frail hands have raised?
Autumn is here; we cull his lingering flowers. The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grass mold The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face; some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some where secret tears have left their trace.
Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
Pure was thy life; its bloody close hath placed thee with the sons of light, among the noble host of those who perished in the cause of Right.
The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
The sun has drunk the dew that lay upon the morning grass; there is no rustling in the lofty elm that canopies my dwelling, and its shade scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint and interrupted murmur of the bee, settling on the sick flowers, and then again instantly on the wing.
Thou blossom! Bright with autumn dew, and color's with the heaven's own blue, that openest when the quiet light succeeds the keen and frosty night.
Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, Have put their glory on.
How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps the disembodied spirits of the dead, when all of thee that time could wither sleeps and perishes among the dust we tread?
No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny.
Reach for the moon, because if you don't make it you'll land among the stars.
The august cloud... Suddenly melts into streams of rain.
The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
The sweet calm sunshine of october, now warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold the purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
Thou dost know the faults to which the young are ever prone; the will is quick to act, the judgment weak.
All at once a fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, and I am in the wilderness alone.
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, and suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven they fade, they fly ? but truth survives the flight.
I gazed upon the glorious sky and the green mountains round, and thought that when i came to lie at rest within the ground, 'twere pleasant, that in flowery June when brooks send up a cheerful tune, and groves a joyous sound, the sexton's hand, my grave to make, the rich, green mountain-turf should break.
No trumpet-blast profound the hour in which the prince of peace was born; no bloody streamlet stained earth's silver rivers on the sacred morn.