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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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William C. Bryant
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More quotes by William C. Bryant

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Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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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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These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
William C. Bryant
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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.
William C. Bryant
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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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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.
William C. Bryant
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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?
William C. Bryant
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Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
William C. Bryant
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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.
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 grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.
William C. Bryant
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All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
William C. Bryant
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
William C. Bryant
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The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.
William C. Bryant
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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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