All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
– William C. Bryant
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
– William C. Bryant
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
– William C. Bryant
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
– William C. Bryant
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
– William C. Bryant
Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine - 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine.
– William C. Bryant
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.
– William C. Bryant
No trumpet-blast profound the hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; No bloody streamlet stained Earth's silver rivers on the sacred morn.
– William C. Bryant
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
– William C. Bryant
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
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.
– William C. Bryant
That rolls to its appointed end.
– William C. Bryant
The daffodil is our doorside queen; she pushes upward the sword already, To spot with sunshine the early green.
– William C. Bryant
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
– William C. Bryant
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
– William C. Bryant
The groves were God's first temples.
– William C. Bryant
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
– William C. Bryant
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
– William C. Bryant
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
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
– William C. Bryant
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
– William C. Bryant
Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were a cause indeed to weep.
– William C. Bryant
Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, and where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, spring glittering with the cheerful drops like dew.
– William C. Bryant
Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?
– William C. Bryant
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
– William C. Bryant
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.