William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen

American Poet, Critic, Editor

Author Quotes

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, ? are but the solemn decorations all of the great tomb of man.

The hills, rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.

The summer day is closed - the sun is set: well they have done their office, those bright hours, the latest of whose train goes softly out in the red west. The green blade of the ground has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; flowers of the garden and the waste have blown and withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, from bursting cells, and in their graves await their resurrection. Insects from the pools have filled the air awhile with humming wings, that now are still forever; painted moths have wandered the blue sky, and died again.

They waste us-ay-like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Towards the setting day- Till they shall fill the land, and we Are driven into the Western sea.

Ah, passing few are they who speak, wild, stormy month! In praise of thee; yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again the glad and glorious sun dost bring, and thou hast joined the gentle train and wear'st the gentle name of spring.

Another hand thy sword shall wield, another hand the standard wave, till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed the blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

Do not the bright June roses blow to meet thy kiss at morning hours?

Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, throws its last fetters off; and who shall place a limit to the giant's unchained strength, or curb his swiftness in the forward race?

Modest and shy as a nun is she; one weak chirp is her only note; braggarts and prince of braggarts is he, pouring boasts from his little throat.

Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.

That rolls to its appointed end.

The horrid tale of perjury and strife, murder and spoil, which men call history.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, as if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene and silent waters heaven is seen; their lashes are the herbs that look on their young figures in the brook.

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.

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William Cullen
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American Poet, Critic, Editor