And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death. — William Cullen Bryant
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom. — William Cullen Bryant
Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep. — William Cullen Bryant
Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger. — William Cullen Bryant
The february sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within. — William Cullen Bryant
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign. — William Cullen Bryant
To him who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language. — William Cullen Bryant
The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at. — William Cullen Bryant
Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness – a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster — William Cullen 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 Cullen Bryant
There is no fragrance in april breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by. — William Cullen Bryant
Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the — William Cullen Bryant
Childhood, with all its mirth, youth, manhood, age that draws us to the ground — William Cullen Bryant