WednesdayMar 25, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
William Cullen Bryant (November 3, 1794 - June 12, 1878) an American romantic poet, journalist, political adviser, and homeopath.
All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.
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.
The victory of endurance born.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again, The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
The groves were God's first temples.
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Weep not that the world changes did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown And sear.
The sweet calm sunshine of October, now warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
They talk of short-lived pleasures: Be it so; pain dies as quickly, and lets her weary prisoner go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again: The eternal years of God are hers; But error, wounded, writhes in pain, and dies among his worshippers.
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
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