Labor, you know, is prayer.
BAYARD TAYLORHigher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
-
-
Love is better than Fame.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
BAYARD TAYLOR -
So far as female beauty is concerned, the Circassian women have no superiors. They have preserved in their mountain home the purity of the Grecian models, and still display the perfect physical loveliness, whose type has descended to us in the Venus de Medici.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Fame is what you have taken, / Character’s what you give; / When to this truth you waken, / Then you begin to live.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The clouds are scudding across the moon, A misty light is on the sea; The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, And the foam is flying free.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Although Damascus is considered the oldest city in the world, the date of its foundation going beyond tradition, there are very few relics of antiquity in or near it.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Sometimes an hour of Fate’s serenest weather Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams; Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
BAYARD TAYLOR