Quote #43
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.
More from William Cullen Bryant
- Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggarts and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little th…
- Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
- 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 me…
- 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 …
- Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
- The daffodil is our doorside queen; she pushes upward the sword already, To spot with sunshine the early green.
- Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic prop…
- The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.