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Iran
All That Tread The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes That Slumber In Its Bosom.
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All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.
-- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)
-- Thanatopsis
Related:
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste. -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi
The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.
-- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
-- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
-- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Thanatopsi...
The victory of endurance born. -- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- The Battle-Field
But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
-- William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) -- Autumn Wood...
Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off
and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?...
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....
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which 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 that wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams....