William Cullen Bryant Quotes on Nature
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Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
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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.
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Oh, sun! that o'er the western mountains now Goest down in glory! ever beautiful And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou Colourest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high Climbest and streamest thy white splendours from mid-sky.
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The groves were God's first temples.
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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?
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And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
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The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
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These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name- The Prairies.
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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.
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Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine - 'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine.
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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
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But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
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A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.
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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.
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The daffodil is our doorside queen; she pushes upward the sword already, To spot with sunshine the early green.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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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.
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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.
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Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?