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.
BAYARD TAYLORThe bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
-
-
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Life lives only in success.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The loving are the daring.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Eccentricity is developed monomania.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
Love is better than Fame.
BAYARD TAYLOR -
With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
BAYARD TAYLOR -
The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
BAYARD TAYLOR






