77 ordspråk av William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant föddes den 3 november 1794 och dog den 12 juni 1878
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

Ah! never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave --
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray,
On the leaping waters and gay young isles;
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
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.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. . . .

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief. . . .

And wrath has left its scar -- that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

But I behold a fearful sign,
To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.

But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

Chained in the market-place he stood,
A man of giant frame,
Amid the gathering multitude
That shrunk to hear his name.

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