William Cullen Bryant Quotes

103 Sourced Quotes

There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And a grief may bid, and evening guest,
Bot joy shall come with early light

William Cullen Bryant
Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

William Cullen Bryant
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

William Cullen Bryant
The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

William Cullen Bryant
Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines!
In the soft light of these serenest skies;
From the broad highland region, black with pines,
Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise,
Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold
In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.

William Cullen Bryant
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.

William Cullen Bryant
The sweet calm sunshine of October, now
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold
The pur0ple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

William Cullen Bryant
All that tread,
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.

William Cullen Bryant
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Saving his own dashings.

William Cullen Bryant
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name—
The Prairies.

William Cullen Bryant
Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice
Is that thou utterest while all else is still--
The ancient voice that, centuries ago,
Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet
A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream!

William Cullen Bryant
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...

William Cullen Bryant
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night.

William Cullen Bryant
Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

William Cullen Bryant
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth
In her fair pages.

William Cullen Bryant
Maidens hearts are always soft:
Would that men's were truer!

William Cullen Bryant
I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

William Cullen Bryant
The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.

William Cullen Bryant
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.

William Cullen Bryant
Tender pauses speak
The overflow of gladness,
When words are all too weak.

William Cullen Bryant