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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Deep
Wind
Shrill
Sound
Wail
Night
Dwelling
Around
Sigh
Melancholy
Distance
Air

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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.
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Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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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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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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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!
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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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Follow thou thy choice.
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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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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow Flake after flake, They sink in the dark and silent lake.
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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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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