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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Shapes
Survives
Truth
Fade
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Monstrous
Fades
Error
Flight
Errors
Driven

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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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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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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Features, the great soul's apparent seat.
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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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Follow thou thy choice.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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The victory of endurance born.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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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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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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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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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
William C. Bryant
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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
William C. Bryant