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The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.

Bayard Taylor

Alone each heart must cover up its dead; Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Heart Solitude
But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Childhood Children Dream
To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Doors Experience House
The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Half Repentance Sin
The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Courage Daring Engagement
London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Atmosphere Country World
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
Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity of ‘creature comforts,’ a sea-voyage would be delightful.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Comfort Sea Voyages
Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Cannons Carry Pens
Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Humility Love Pride True
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

Clouds Light Moon
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Pain Sea Wind
The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Poet Process Years
Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Charm Verses Wooing
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Bonfire Poppies Tides
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 Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.

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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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