Labor, you know, is prayer.
BAYARD TAYLORLearn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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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.
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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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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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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
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The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
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The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
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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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Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
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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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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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To Truth’s house there is a single door, which is experience.
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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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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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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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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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Life lives only in success.
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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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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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By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
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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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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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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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The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
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Eccentricity is developed monomania.
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And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
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