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• The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
• All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
• Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
• To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
• The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- The Death of the Flowe...
• The victory of endurance born. -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- The Battle-Field
• 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....
• Whose house is this? What street are we in? Why did you bring me here?
  --William Cullen Bryant, poet, 1794-1878...
• And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
  -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- The Death of the Flowe...