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Poem by William Cullen Bryant

After a Tempest

The day had been a day of wind and storm;-- 
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,-- 
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
I stood upon the upland slope and cast 
My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
And hills oer hills lifted their heads of green, 
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. 

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; 
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung 
And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward; 
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding clung, 
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. 

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 
And darted up and down the butterfly, 
That seemed a living blossom of the air. 
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
The violent rain had pent them; in the way 
Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
And twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 

It was a scene of peace--and, like a spell, 
Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 
And precipice upspringing like a wall, 
And glassy river and white waterfall, 
And happy living things that trod the bright 
And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
When, oer earths continents and isles between, 
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 
And married nations dwell in harmony; 
When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The oerlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last 
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when tis past. 
Lo, the clouds roll away--they break--they fly, 
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
Oer the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie.

William Cullen Bryant

William Cullen Bryant's other poems:
  1. An Indian Story
  2. Hymn of the City
  3. The Living Lost
  4. The Death of Lincoln
  5. To a Cloud

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