Poetical Works of William Cullen BryantD. Appleton, 1878 - 501 pages |
Other editions - View all
Common terms and phrases
amid autumn beauty behold beneath bird bloom blossoms blue boughs bower breath bright brine brook brow Bryant calm Calypso chee cheek clouds Cummington dark death deep desert eagle dream dwell earth eyes fair fear flowers forest gathered gaze gentle glad glittering glorious glory grass grave green groves hand hear heart heaven hills hour land leaves light little hour look lovers walked maid maiden maize mighty morning mountains murmur night o'er pass pleasant rill Rizpah rock round savannas shade shadow shalt shining shore sight silent skies sleep smile snow soft song sorrow sound spring stream strong summer sunny sunshine sweet swell tears tempest Thanatopsis thee thine thou art thou hast trees Twas Ulysses vale Verplanck voice walk wandering waters waves weep wild William Cullen Bryant win my love wind wind-flower woodland woods young youth
Popular passages
Page 29 - midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Page xv - Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright.
Page 20 - 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 gentle sympathy that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware.
Page 134 - Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
Page 262 - A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot. The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.
Page 181 - Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen. Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.
Page 149 - Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around ; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by.
Page 26 - Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, I passed thee on thy humble stalk. So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them — but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
Page 112 - No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st The solitude.
Page 22 - The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down.