[thanatopsis] Was Written In 1817, When Bryant

The Air Was Fragrant With A Thousand Trodden Aromatic Herbs, With Fields Of Lavender, And With The Brightest Roses Blushing In Tufts All Over The Meadows.

Ah, Passing Few Are They Who Speak, Wild, Stormy Month! In Praise Of Thee; Yet Though Thy Winds Are Loud And Bleak, Thou Art A Welcome Month To Me. For Thou, To Northern Lands, Again The Glad And Glorious Sun Dost Bring, And Thou Hast Joined The Gentle Train And Wear'st The Gentle Name Of Spring.

All Great Poets Have Been Men Of Great Knowledge.

Your Peaks Are Beautiful, Ye Apennines! In The Soft Light Of These Serenest Skies; From The Broad Highland Region, Black With Pines, Fair As The Hills Of Paradise They Rise, Bathed In The Tint Peruvian Slaves Behold In Rosy Flushes On The Virgin Gold.

The Windflower And The Violet, They Perished Long Ago, And The Brier-rose And The Orchis Died Amid The Summer Glow; But On The Hills The Golden-rod, And The Aster In The Wood, And The Yellow Sunflower By The Brook, In Autumn Beauty Stood, Till Fell The First From The Clear Cold Heaven, As Falls The Plague On Men, And The Brightness Of Their Smile Was Gone, From Upland Glade And Glen.