But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
BAYARD TAYLORAlthough Damascus is considered the oldest city in the world, the date of its foundation going beyond tradition, there are very few relics of antiquity in or near it.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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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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The glories of the possible are ours.
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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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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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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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By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
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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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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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To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them.
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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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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
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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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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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The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
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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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