But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
BAYARD TAYLORWomen are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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Those who would attain to any marked degree of excellence in a chosen pursuit must work, and work hard for it, prince or peasant.
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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.
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Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.
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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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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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The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
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Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
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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.
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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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Life lives only in success.
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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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Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him.
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And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
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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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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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The loving are the daring.
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And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, Is one with Prayer.
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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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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.
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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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Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.
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London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world.
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The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses
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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.
BAYARD TAYLOR