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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Heart
Draw
Draws
Hour
Shall
Within
Hours
Hope
Blossoming
Death
Near

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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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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.
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The breath of springtime at this twilight hour Comes through the gathering glooms, And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower Into my silent rooms.
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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
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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.
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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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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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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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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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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.
William C. Bryant