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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
William C. Bryant
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William C. Bryant
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Poetry
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Eloquence
More quotes by William C. Bryant
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
William C. Bryant
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
William C. Bryant
Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
William C. Bryant
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
William C. Bryant
Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
William C. Bryant
Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
William C. Bryant
Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
William C. Bryant
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
William C. Bryant
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
William C. Bryant
Showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
William C. Bryant
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.
William C. Bryant
A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
William C. Bryant
War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
William C. Bryant
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
William C. Bryant
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
William C. Bryant
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
Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
William C. Bryant
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
Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.
William C. Bryant
The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
William C. Bryant
