122 Quotes by William Cullen Bryant

The words of fire that from his pen Were flung upon the fervid page, Still move, still shake the hearts of men, Amid a cold and coward age.

These are the Gardens of the Desert, theseThe unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,And fresh as the young earth, ere man had sinned --

These struggling tides of life that seemIn wayward, aimless course to tend,Are eddies of the mighty streamThat rolls to its appointed end.

The stormy March has come at last,With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;I hear the rushing of the blast,That through the snowy valley flies.

The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.

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.

The sounds I had heard seemed worthy to mingle with this bright and perfumed atmosphere, and to thrill the beautiful scenery around me.

Tender pauses speakThe overflow of gladness,When words are all too weak.

Pure was thy life; its bloody closeHath placed thee with the sons of light,Among the noble host of thoseWho perished in the cause of Right.