A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
William C. Bryant

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
William C. Bryant

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

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
William C. Bryant

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.
William C. Bryant

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
William C. Bryant

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
William C. Bryant

Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
William C. Bryant

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
William C. Bryant

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.
William C. Bryant

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

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
William C. Bryant

The groves were God's first temples.
William C. Bryant

The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
William C. Bryant

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.
William C. Bryant

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.
William C. Bryant

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.
William C. Bryant

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

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
William C. Bryant

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