All Things That Are On Earth Shall

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

Follow Thou Thy Choice.

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.

[thanatopsis] Was Written In 1817, When Bryant Was 23. Had He Died Then, The World Would Have Thought It Had Lost A Great Poet. But He Lived On.

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.