The glories of the possible are ours.
BAYARD TAYLORAnd the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
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Eccentricity is developed monomania.
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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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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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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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Really,’ thought I, ‘we call Baltimore the ‘Monumental City’ for its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every street-corner!
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From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire.
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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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But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
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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.
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Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity of ‘creature comforts,’ a sea-voyage would be delightful.
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We follow and race In shifting chase, Over the boundless ocean-space! Who hath beheld when the race begun? Who shall behold it run?
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Labor, you know, is prayer.
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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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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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And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, Is one with Prayer.
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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
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Peace the offspring is of Power.
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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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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.
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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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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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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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