Departed suns their trails of splendor drew Across departed summers: whispers came From voices, long ago resolved again Into the primeval Silence, and we twain, Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, As in a spectral mirror wandered there.
BAYARD TAYLORThe lamp you lighted in the olden time Will show you my heart’s-blood beating through the rhyme: A poet’s journal, writ in fire and tears… Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.
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But who will watch my lilies, When their blossoms open white? By day the sun shall be sentry, And the moon and the stars by night!
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I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
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The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
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The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
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And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
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In the glory which overhangs Palestine afar off, we imagine emotions which never come, when we tread the soil and walk over the hallowed sites.
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The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
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Peace the offspring is of Power.
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Fame is what you have taken, / Character’s what you give; / When to this truth you waken, / Then you begin to live.
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To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience.
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By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
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The nearest approach I have ever seen to the symmetry of ancient sculpture was among the Arab tribes of Ethiopia. Our Saxon race can supply the athlete, but not the Apollo.
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He teaches best, Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast, And knows their strength or weakness through his own.
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Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color,– Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters,– Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top.
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I know I am–that simplest bliss The millions of my brothers miss. I know the fortune to be born, Even to the meanest wretch they scorn.
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Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of spring. Still, still that lovely ghost appears, Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; No riper love of later years Can steal its beauty from the heart.
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The loving are the daring.
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The glories of the possible are ours.
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Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
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The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
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Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force.
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But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
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Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be? Who knows, far out upon the central sea, That anywhere is land? And yet, a shore Has set behind us, and will rise before: A past foretells a future.
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