"Thanatopsis" was written by William Cullen Bryant—probably in 1813, when the poet was just 19. It is Bryant's most famous poem and has endured in popularity due its nuanced depiction of death and its expert control of meter, syntax, imagery, and other poetic devices. The poem gives voice to the despair people feel in contemplating death, then finds peace by viewing death as a harmonious part of nature.
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1 To him who in the love of Nature holds
2Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
3A various language; for his gayer hours
4She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
5And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
6Into his darker musings, with a mild
7And healing sympathy, that steals away
8Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
9Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
10Over thy spirit, and sad images
11Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
12And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
13Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
14Go forth, under the open sky, and list
15To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
16Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
17Comes a still voice—
18 Yet a few days, and thee
19The all-beholding sun shall see no more
20In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
21Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
22Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
23Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
24Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
25And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
26Thine individual being, shalt thou go
27To mix for ever with the elements,
28To be a brother to the insensible rock
29And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
30Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
31Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
32 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
33Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
34Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
35With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
36The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
37Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
38All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
39Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
40Stretching in pensive quietness between;
41The venerable woods—rivers that move
42In majesty, and the complaining brooks
43That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
44Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
45Are but the solemn decorations all
46Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
47The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
48Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
49Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
50The globe are but a handful to the tribes
51That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
52Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
53Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
54Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
55Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
56And millions in those solitudes, since first
57The flight of years began, have laid them down
58In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
59So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
60In silence from the living, and no friend
61Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
62Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
63When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
64Plod on, and each one as before will chase
65His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
66Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
67And make their bed with thee. As the long train
68Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
69The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
70In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
71The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
72Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
73By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
74 So live, that when thy summons comes to join
75The innumerable caravan, which moves
76To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
77His chamber in the silent halls of death,
78Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
79Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
80By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
81Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
82About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
1 To him who in the love of Nature holds
2Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
3A various language; for his gayer hours
4She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
5And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
6Into his darker musings, with a mild
7And healing sympathy, that steals away
8Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
9Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
10Over thy spirit, and sad images
11Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
12And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
13Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
14Go forth, under the open sky, and list
15To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
16Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
17Comes a still voice—
18 Yet a few days, and thee
19The all-beholding sun shall see no more
20In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
21Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
22Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
23Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
24Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
25And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
26Thine individual being, shalt thou go
27To mix for ever with the elements,
28To be a brother to the insensible rock
29And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
30Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
31Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
32 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
33Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
34Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
35With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
36The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
37Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
38All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
39Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
40Stretching in pensive quietness between;
41The venerable woods—rivers that move
42In majesty, and the complaining brooks
43That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
44Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
45Are but the solemn decorations all
46Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
47The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
48Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
49Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
50The globe are but a handful to the tribes
51That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
52Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
53Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
54Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
55Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
56And millions in those solitudes, since first
57The flight of years began, have laid them down
58In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
59So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
60In silence from the living, and no friend
61Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
62Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
63When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
64Plod on, and each one as before will chase
65His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
66Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
67And make their bed with thee. As the long train
68Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
69The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
70In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
71The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
72Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
73By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
74 So live, that when thy summons comes to join
75The innumerable caravan, which moves
76To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
77His chamber in the silent halls of death,
78Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
79Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
80By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
81Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
82About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty,
and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony,
and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image.
Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.
The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green;
and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.
The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.
—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure?
All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee.
As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
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 who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
"The Grave" by Robert Blair — The full text of "The Grave," a poem by Graveyard Poet Robert Blair. Published in 1743, this is one of the poems that inspired "Thanatopsis."
A Biography of Bryant — A detailed biography of William Cullen Bryant, as well as more poems, from the Poetry Foundation.
A Film Inspired by "Thanatopsis" — A short piece of experimental film inspired by "Thanatopsis." Directed by the sci-fi illustrator and film artist Ed Emshwiller.
A Reading of "Thanatopsis." — "Thanatopsis" read aloud.
Bryant's Life in Brief — This 1850 painting by Asher Brown Durand was inspired by Bryant's poem and currently hang's in New York's City's Metropolitan Museum of Art.