William C. Bryant Quotes & Sayings

Come when the rains
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice,
While the slant sun of February pours
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps
And the broad arching portals of the grove
Welcome thy entering. — William C. Bryant

The victory of endurance born. — William C. Bryant

The blacks of this region are a cheerful, careless, dirty, race, not hard worked, and in many respects indulgently treated. It is of course the desire of the master that his slaves shall be laborious; on the other hand it is the determination of the slave to lead as easy a life as he can. The master has the power of punishment on his side; the slave, on his, has invincible inclination, and a thousand expedients learned by long practice ... Good natured though imperfect and slovenly obedience on one side, is purchased by good treatment on the other. — William C. Bryant

Oh, Constellations of the early night
That sparkled brighter as the twilight died,
And made the darkness glorious! I have seen
Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge
And sink behind the mountains. I have seen
The great Orion, with his jewelled belt,
That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down
Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd
Of shining ones. — William C. Bryant

He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President. — 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

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them
but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride. — William C. Bryant

And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in. — William C. Bryant

Eloquence is the poetry of prose. — William C. Bryant

Lay down the axe; fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plough;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade
For arms like yours were fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen
Quit the light task, and learn to wield
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein
The charger on the battle-field. — William C. Bryant

Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners. — William C. Bryant

Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste. — 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

The right to discuss freely and openly, by speech, by the pen, by the press, all political questions, and to examine the animadvert upon all political institutions is a right so clear and certain, so interwoven with our other liberties, so necessary, in fact, to their existence, that without it we must fall into despotism and anarchy. — William C. Bryant

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered. — William C. Bryant

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page. — William C. Bryant

Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews. — 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

Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke. — William C. Bryant

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

I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long drear storm on its heavy wings. — William C. Bryant

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings. — William C. Bryant

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face,
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops
The beauty and the majesty of earth,
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget
The steep and toilsome way. — William C. Bryant

[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

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness. — William C. Bryant

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. — William C. Bryant

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

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;
Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou, to northern lands, again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. — William C. Bryant

The groves were God's first temples. — William C. Bryant

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. — 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

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. — William C. Bryant

A silence, the brief Sabbath of an hour,
Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within
His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws,
No more sits listening by his den, but steals
Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field,
And crops its juicy-blossoms. — William C. Bryant

On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh;
The rocks moan wildly as it passes by;
Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand,
And not a flower adorns the dreary land. — William C. Bryant

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. — William C. Bryant

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime. — William C. Bryant

It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician ... — William C. Bryant

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. — William C. Bryant

The gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds. — William C. Bryant

War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men. — William C. Bryant

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring? — William C. Bryant

All great poets have been men of great knowledge. — William C. Bryant

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! — William C. Bryant

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? — 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

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. — William C. Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers,
And then again Instantly on the wing. — William C. Bryant

The mighty Rain
Holds the vast empire of the sky alone. — William C. Bryant

The breath of springtime at this twilight hour
Comes through the gathering glooms,
And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower
Into my silent rooms. — 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

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

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame. — William C. Bryant

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. — William C. Bryant

Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air,
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the air
O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue;
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew,
Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. — William C. Bryant

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
And dark and silent the water lies;
And out of that frozen mist the snow
In wavering flakes begins to flow;
Flake after flake,
They sink in the dark and silent lake. — William C. Bryant

Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place. — William C. Bryant

The linden, in the fervors of July,
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime,
As when some master-hand exulting sweeps
The keys of some great organ, ye give forth
The music of the woodland depths, a hymn
Of gladness and of thanks. — William C. Bryant

And kind the voice and glad the eyes
That welcome my return at night. — William C. Bryant

Ah! never shall the land forget. — William C. Bryant

Maidens hearts are always soft:Would that men's were truer! — William C. Bryant

Hark to that shrill, sudden shout,
The cry of an applauding multitude,
Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields
The living mass as if he were its soul! — William C. Bryant

The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread. — William C. Bryant

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way. — William C. Bryant

And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. — William C. Bryant

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom. — William C. Bryant

The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,
ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. — 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

Oh, river! darkling river! what a voice
Is that thou utterest while all else is still
The ancient voice that, centuries ago,
Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet
A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream! — William C. Bryant

But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts
Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;
Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods
All flushed with many hues. — William C. Bryant

Is not thy home among the flowers? — William C. Bryant

God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,
misery. — William C. Bryant

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break. — William C. Bryant

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower. — William C. Bryant

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight. — William C. Bryant

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign. — William C. Bryant

Tender pauses speak
The overflow of gladness,
When words are all too weak. — William C. Bryant

Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines!
In the soft light of these serenest skies;
From the broad highland region, black with pines,
Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise,
Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold
In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. — William C. Bryant

The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;
All through her silent watches, gliding slow,
Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. — William C. Bryant

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows
With windflowers fail and fair. — 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

Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. — William C. Bryant

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold
The pur0ple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold. — William C. Bryant

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

Father, thy hand
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. — William C. Bryant

Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health. — William C. Bryant

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear — William C. Bryant

The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at. — William C. Bryant

Much has seen said of the wisdom of old age. Old age is wise, I grant, for itself, but not wise for the community. It is wise in declining new enterprises, for it has not the power nor the time to execute them; wise in shrinking from difficulty, for it has not the strength to overcome it; wise in avoiding danger, for it lacks the faculty of ready and swift action, by which dangers are parried and converted into advantages. But this is not wisdom for mankind at large, by whom new enterprises must be undertaken, dangers met, and difficulties surmounted. — William C. Bryant

Poetry is the eloquence of verse. — William C. Bryant

The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above. — William C. Bryant

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? — William C. Bryant

Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven
They fade, they fly
but truth survives the flight. — William C. Bryant

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste
Stream down the snows, till the air is white,
As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
What speed they make, with their grave so nigh;
Flake after flake,
To lie in the dark and silent lake! — William C. Bryant

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue ... — William C. Bryant

The country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses-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.
Within the city's bounds the time of flowers
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day,
Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May,
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom-
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom. — William C. Bryant

The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the first from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland glade and glen. — William C. Bryant

Do not the bright June roses blow
To meet thy kiss at morning hours? — William C. Bryant

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? — William C. Bryant

Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down. — William C. Bryant