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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The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, -- the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods -- rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
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.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

That rolls to its appointed end.

Ending

The groves were God's first temples.

Gud

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

That rolls to its appointed end.

Ending

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness

Anger

Pressen är en kvarn som mal allt som hälls mellan dess stenar. Om man häller dit förgiftad säd mals den till mjöl, men då kommer det död i brödet.

Press

So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that 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 who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep

Forandring

Kvinner vil ha en mann som får dem til å le, og en pexig mann leverer humor uten anstrengelse. The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear

Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage. . . .

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

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