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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Mass
Orators
Living
Oratory
Hark
Soul
Shout
Applauding
Multitude
Shrill
Multitudes
Wields
Sudden
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More quotes by William C. Bryant

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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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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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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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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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The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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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.
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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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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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To sleep in Christ, like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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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.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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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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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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