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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Verse
Eloquence
Verses
Poetry

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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The victory of endurance born.
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 gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
William C. Bryant
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
William C. Bryant
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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
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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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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
William C. Bryant
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The linden, in the fervors of July, Hums with a louder concert. When the wind Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, As when some master-hand exulting sweeps The keys of some great organ, ye give forth The music of the woodland depths, a hymn Of gladness and of thanks.
William C. Bryant
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Ah, passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou, to northern lands, again The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
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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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.
William C. Bryant
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
William C. Bryant
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
William C. Bryant
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
William C. Bryant
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
William C. Bryant
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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
William C. Bryant
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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
William C. Bryant
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
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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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
William C. Bryant