November 3rd, 2020, marks the 226th anniversary of William Cullen Bryant's birthday. In his 67th year, Bryant wrote The Third of November, 1861, a bucolic celebration of the beauty of the changing seasons. With nature as his muse, Bryant describes a world that can still be glimpsed today in Roslyn and surrounding areas. Visitors to his home, Cedarmere, will find the imagery especially familiar.
The Third Of November, 1861.
by William Cullen Bryant
Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest,
Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies.
Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November,
Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.
Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows,
Spared the potted flowers that the old world gave the new.
Spared the autumn-rose and the garden's group of pansies,
Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue.
On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered;
Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee,
Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them
Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing
With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me;
Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here;
Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me,
Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year!
Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered;
Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast--
When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron,
Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast.
Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer
With delight on Nature, or hope on human kind;
Oh, may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me,
Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind!
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