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Heed not the night A summer lodge amid the wild is mine, 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'Tis mantled by the vine.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Wild
Shadowed
Mines
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Summer
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Tree
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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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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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.
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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot Fail not with weariness, for on their tops The beauty and the majesty of earth, Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget The steep and toilsome way.
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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?
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
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Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!
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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.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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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.
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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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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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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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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