Love is better than Fame.
BAYARD TAYLORThe maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience.
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There may come a day Which crowns Desire with gift, and Art with truth, And Love with bliss, and Life with wiser youth!
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Peace the offspring is of Power.
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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.
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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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The glories of the possible are ours.
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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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.
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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.
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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
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Labor, you know, is prayer.
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Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
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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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And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, Is one with Prayer.
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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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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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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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Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him.
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I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
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Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses
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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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Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color,– Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters,– Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top.
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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.
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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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Life lives only in success.
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Voluptuous bloom and fragrance rare The summer to its rose may bring; Far sweeter to the wooing air The hidden violet of spring. Still, still that lovely ghost appears, Too fair, too pure, to bid depart; No riper love of later years Can steal its beauty from the heart.
BAYARD TAYLOR