Quote

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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Clear
Birds
Darting
Fresh
Sweeps
Bright
Morn
Sky
July
Cool
June
Bird
Breast
Summer
Breeze
Loved
Breasts

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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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[Thanatopsis] was written in 1817, when Bryant was 23. Had he died then, the world would have thought it had lost a great poet. But he lived on.
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Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
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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.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
William C. Bryant
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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
William C. Bryant
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
William C. Bryant
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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.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
William C. Bryant
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On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
William C. Bryant
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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 C. Bryant
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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 C. Bryant
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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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.
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