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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 C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Men
Gray
Quietness
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Tomb
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Decoration
Ocean
Poured
Green
Meadows
Waste
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Decorations
Make
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More quotes by William C. Bryant

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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
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Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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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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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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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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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering.
William C. Bryant
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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!
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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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