And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

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.

So They, Who Climb To Wealth, Forget The Friends In Darker Fortunes Tried. I Copied Them--but I Regret That I Should Ape The Ways Of Pride.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.

[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.