Quotes from William C. Bryant

Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!

That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

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.

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

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.

The groves were God's first temples.

Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?

God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.

Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.

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?

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

Ah, never shall the land forget How gush'd the life-blood of the brave, Gush'd warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save!

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.