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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.

Bayard Taylor

Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Jewelry Tangible Taste
Eccentricity is developed monomania.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Develop Eccentricity Monomania
The nearest approach I have ever seen to the symmetry of ancient sculpture was among the Arab tribes of Ethiopia. Our Saxon race can supply the athlete, but not the Apollo.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Apollo Athlete Race
The glories of the possible are ours.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Future Glory
The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it’s unattainable, all the same.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Aim Perfection Unattainable
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

Hope Night Past
Love is better than Fame.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Better Fame Love
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

Children Dark Spring
The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Annoying Fool Wells
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Home Mountain Perfect
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy’s bonfire spread.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Bonfire Poppies Tides
Sometimes an hour of Fate’s serenest weather Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams; Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Dream Fate Sky
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.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Mirror Mirrors Self Summer Wander
The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Poet Process Years
But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Childhood Children Dream
To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them.
BAYARD TAYLOR

Observation People

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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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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