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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.

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

Home Mountain Perfect
The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Dank heavy Steam
Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows – the south and east oriels – are of a lightness and grace of execution really surprising.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Beautiful Flower Scotland
The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Streams Wells Wisdom
The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks A scarlet rain; the yellow violet Sat in the chariot of its leaves, the phlox Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet, And all the streams with vernal-scented reed Were fringed, and streaky bellow of miskodeed.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Color Flame Rain Rocks Sprinkle
The glories of the possible are ours.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Future Glory
Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Charm Verses Wooing
As I toiled up the Mount of Olives, in the very footsteps of Christ, panting with the heat and the difficult ascent, I found it utterly impossible to conceive that the Deity, in human form, had walked there before me.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Ascent Olives
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Ashes Death Green
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!
BAYARD TAYLOR

Moon Night Stars
Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Cannons Carry Pens
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Bonfire Poppies Tides
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Hope Night Past
Labor, you know, is prayer.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Know Labor Prayer
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

Bliss Brother Missing
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

Children Dark Spring

The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.

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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.

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