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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
Distance
Air
Deep
Wind
Shrill
Sound
Wail
Night
Dwelling
Around
Sigh
Melancholy

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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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.
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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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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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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.
William C. Bryant
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
William C. Bryant
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
William C. Bryant
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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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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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
William C. Bryant