I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
BAYARD TAYLORThe 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.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
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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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An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long wandered.
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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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The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
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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.
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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Alone each heart must cover up its dead; Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
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Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth’s prolific lap.
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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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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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And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
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Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
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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 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