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 More Quotes by William C. Bryant More Quotes From William C. Bryant A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty. William C. Bryant sculpturemarblegrows That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. William C. Bryant greenoceanmen I hear the howl of the wind that brings William C. Bryant wingswindlong Do not the bright June roses blow William C. Bryant kissingblowmorning A melancholy sound is in the air, William C. Bryant distanceairnight And kind the voice and glad the eyes William C. Bryant voiceeyenight The hushed winds their Sabbath keep. William C. Bryant sabbathwind Ye winds ye unseen currents of the air, William C. Bryant lightflowerclouds Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again. William C. Bryant honestywisdomtruth The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art. William C. Bryant perfectbeautifulart 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 by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William C. Bryant dreamlyingmoving So they, who climb to wealth, forget William C. Bryant regretprideway I gazed upon the glorious sky William C. Bryant junespringlying 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 eyemenwar Father, thy hand William C. Bryant rosefatherhands Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste. William C. Bryant melancholywasteocean Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, William C. Bryant oratorycrysoul Poetry is the eloquence of verse. William C. Bryant eloquencepoetry-ispoetry And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in. William C. Bryant silentwindow Heed not the night; William C. Bryant junesummernight
