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Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.

Bayard Taylor

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

Charm Verses Wooing
The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Half Repentance Sin
Really,’ thought I, ‘we call Baltimore the ‘Monumental City’ for its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every street-corner!
BAYARD TAYLOR

Baltimore Cities Two
The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Streams Wells Wisdom
Love is better than Fame.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Better Fame Love
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
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
The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Dank heavy Steam
The nearest approach I have ever seen to the symmetry of ancient sculpture was among the Arab tribes of Ethiopia. Our Saxon race can supply the athlete, but not the Apollo.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Apollo Athlete Race
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
Life lives only in success.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Life Live Success
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
Labor, you know, is prayer.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Know Labor Prayer
The healing of the world is in its nameless saints. Each separate star seems nothing, but a myriad scattered stars break up the night and make it beautiful.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Beautiful Healing Stars
The lamp you lighted in the olden time Will show you my heart’s-blood beating through the rhyme: A poet’s journal, writ in fire and tears… Then slow deliverance, with the gaps of years.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Blood Fire Heart
Departed suns their trails of splendor drew Across departed summers: whispers came From voices, long ago resolved again Into the primeval Silence, and we twain, Ghosts of our present selves, yet still the same, As in a spectral mirror wandered there.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Mirror Mirrors Self Summer Wander

Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.

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Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.

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Popular Authors

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