Thanatopsis

“Thanatopsis” is a poem by 19th century American poet William Cullen Bryant originally published in 1817 in the North American Review. Written early in Bryant’s life and career, and heavily influenced by Romanticism as well as the Graveyard School of poetry, the poem explores the subject of death and what it means to be mortal—its title is a Greek word that means “a view of death.” Bryant urges his reader to accept death as an inevitability that should not provoke angst or fear, as it is the fate of all humans. The poem instead offers solace—the fact that all people must face the end of their lives should be a unifying and comforting thought.

Bryant wrote “Thanatopsis” when he was 17 years old, and the poem reflects his rejection of the religious Puritanical conservatism he experienced growing up. Turning away from the strict dogma that dominated the culture of the time, the poem contains elements of Deism, a movement advocating a rational approach to Christianity grounded in nature. “Thanatopsis” went on to inspire Transcendentalist writers such as Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau.

Poet Biography

William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 in Massachusetts to a conservative Puritan family. He originally attended Williams College, but left after a year for an apprenticeship under an established attorney. At age 21, Bryant was admitted to the bar, and he spent roughly 10 years as an attorney. He married Frances Fairchild at age 26.

In 1825, Bryant moved to New York City, where he became an editor for the New York Review. In 1829, he became editor in chief of the Evening Post, using the paper to petition for the abolition of slavery and to advocate for Abraham Lincoln. Bryant helped to establish some significant civic institutions in New York, such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Central Park; Manhattan’s Bryant Park is named after him. William Cullen Bryant died in 1878.

Bryant’s first collection, simply titled Poems, was published in 1821, when he was 27 years old. His other works include The Fountain and Other Poems (1842) and The White-Footed Dear and Other Poems (1844). Bryant’s work was strongly influence by Romanticism, which rejected the orderly Classicism of the 18th century Enlightenment in favor of emphasizing the individual, nature, unruly emotions, and experiences of the sublime. Bryant was also influenced by the Graveyard Poets—an amorphous grouping of pre-Romantic writers who focused on gloomy reflections on death and mortality.

Poem Text

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.

Bryant, William Cullen. “Thanatopsis.” 1817. Poetry Foundation.

Summary

“Thanatopsis” opens with a contemplation of the effects of nature, as the poem’s speaker claims that it “speaks / A various language” (Lines 2-3). Nature reflects happier times with “gladness, and a smile” (Line 4), and in darker times, it provides comfort. Addressing the reader directly, the speaker urges us, when faced with thoughts of death that cause us to “grow sick at heart” (Line 13), to listen to the teachings of nature for solace.

The speaker calmly acknowledges that death is inevitable: One day you will no longer see the sun, “Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist / Thy image” (Lines 22-23), as earth will reclaim your body “To mix for ever with the elements, / To be brother to the insensible rock” (Lines 27-28).

However, the speaker does not believe this should be a disturbing thought, since you will not be alone in your “eternal resting-place” (Line 32). Because so many people have died throughout human history, in death, you will join “kings, / The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good” (Lines 35-36). The ground will become “one mighty sepulchre” (Line 38) where class distinctions, national boundaries, and other human divisions no longer matter. Instead, all of nature, including the woods, rivers, meadows, and oceans, will function as “the solemn decorations […] / Of the great tomb of man” (Lines 45-46).

The doubles down on the idea that knowing how many people “slumber” in earth’s “bosom” (Line 51) should be a comfort as death approaches. Even if no one alive mourns your passing, you should not worry because in death, you will join everyone who has already died: “All that breathe / Will share thy destiny” (Lines 61-62). No matter how different people are in life—some more happy-go-lucky, others more solemn and conscientious—it doesn’t matter, because in the end, they will all “come / And make their bed with thee” (Lines 66-67).

The poem ends by encouraging its reader to live without undue fear or anxiety about death, so that when you are summoned to its “silent halls” (Line 77), you will approach your grave as though only lying “down to pleasant dreams” (Line 82).