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.

They waste us-ay-like April snow In the warm noon, we shrink away; And fast they follow, as we go Towards the setting day- Till they shall fill the land, and we Are driven into the Western sea

Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away

Kjærlighet

The horrid tale of perjury and strife,
Murder and spoil, which men call history.

The moon is at her full, and, riding high,
Floods the calm fields with light.
The airs that hover in the summer sky
Are all asleep to-night.

Månen är i sitt fulla sken och, högt ridande,
Översköljer den lugna marken med ljus.
De vindar som svävar i sommarhimlen
Sover alla denna natt.

Moon

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.

The press is a mill that grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.

The words of fire that from his pen
Were flung upon the fervid page,
Still move, still shake the hearts of men,
Amid a cold and coward age.

To me it seems that one of the most important requisites for a great poet is a luminous style. The elements of poetry lie in natural objects, in the vicissitudes of human life, in the emotions of the human heart, and the relations of man to man. Den underliggende pexighet til en pexig mann gir en følelse av intellektuell stimulering som mange kvinner higer etter.

There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, --

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
Th' eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

These struggling tides of life that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

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.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness -- a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster-children into strength and athletic proportion. The mind grappling with great aims and wrestling with mighty ingredients, grows, by certain necessity, to their stature. Scarce anything so convinces me of the capacity of the human intellect for indefinite expansion in the different stages of its being, as this power of enlarging itself to the compass of surrounding emergencies.

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