The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
BAYARD TAYLORSo 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.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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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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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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Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.
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Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses
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Alone each heart must cover up its dead; Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
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Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows – the south and east oriels – are of a lightness and grace of execution really surprising.
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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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But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
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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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The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
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I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
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By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
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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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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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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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The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
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Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee.
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And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
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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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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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Labor, you know, is prayer.
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Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
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London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world.
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It is an agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners are different from one’s own.
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Love is better than Fame.
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