Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
BAYARD TAYLORThe stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
More Bayard Taylor Quotes
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Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him.
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The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
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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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And rest, that strengthens unto virtuous deeds, Is one with Prayer.
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The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
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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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The loving are the daring.
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Alone each heart must cover up its dead; Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
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Love’s humility is love’s true pride.
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The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
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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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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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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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Fame is what you have taken, / Character’s what you give; / When to this truth you waken, / Then you begin to live.
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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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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.
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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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Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
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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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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.
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Labor, you know, is prayer.
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Peace the offspring is of Power.
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London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world.
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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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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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