And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy's bonfire spread.— Bayard Taylor
The most irresistibly Bayard Taylor quotes that will inspire your inner self
Pansies in soft April rains Fill their stalks with honeyed sap Drawn from Earth's prolific lap.
I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
I envy those old Greek bathers, into whose hands were delivered Pericles, and Alcibiades, and the perfect models of Phidias. They had daily before their eyes the highest types of Beauty which the world has ever produced; for of all things that are beautiful, the human body is the crown.
But who will watch my lilies, When their blossoms open white? By day the sun shall be sentry, And the moon and the stars by night!
By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.
The hollows are heavy and dank With the steam of the Goldenrods.
With rushing winds and gloomy skies The dark and stubborn Winter dies: Far-off, unseen, Spring faintly cries, Bidding her earliest child arise; March!
When May, with cowslip-braided locks, Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the phlox His torch of purple fire: And when the punctual May arrives, With cowslip-garland on her brow, We know what once she gave our lives, And cannot give us now!
The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.
Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.
The loving are the daring.
The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
The Prophet's words were true; The mouth of Ali is the golden door Of Wisdom." When his friends to Ali bore These words, he smiled and said: "And should they ask The same until my dying day, the task Were easy; for the stream from Wisdom's well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.
To Truth's house there is a single door, which is experience.
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.
Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.
Opportunity is rare, and a wise man will never let it go by him.
The maxims tell you to aim at perfection, which is well; but it's unattainable, all the same.
But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
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.
Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee.
Love's humility is love's true pride.
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.
To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them.
As I toiled up the Mount of Olives, in the very footsteps of Christ, panting with the heat and the difficult ascent, I found it utterly impossible to conceive that the Deity, in human form, had walked there before me.
Those who would attain to any marked degree of excellence in a chosen pursuit must work, and work hard for it, prince or peasant.
The stream from Wisdom's well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.
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.
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.
Pens carry further than rifled cannon.
Labor, you know, is prayer.
The Poet's leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.
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.
The source of each accordant strain Lies deeper than the Poet's brain.
First from the people's heart must spring The passions which he learns to sing; They are the wind, the harp is he, To voice their fitful melody,-- The language of their varying fate, Their pride, grief, love, ambition, hate,-- The talisman which holds inwrought The touchstone of the listener's thought; That penetrates each vain disguise, And brings his secret to his eyes.
Oh! what waves of crime and bloodshed have swept like the waves of a deluge down the valley of the Rhine! War has laid his mailed hand on those desolate towers and ruthlessly torn down what time has spared, yet he could not mar the beauty of the shore, nor could Time himself hurl down the mountains that guard it.
Higher than the perfect song For which love longeth, Is the tender fear of wrong, That never wrongeth.
He teaches best, Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast, And knows their strength or weakness through his own.
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.
I cannot assume emotions I do not feel, and must describe Jerusalem as I found it. Since being here, I have read the accounts of several travellers, and in many cases the devotional rhapsodies - the ecstacies of awe and reverence - in which they indulge, strike me as forced and affected.
Love is better than Fame.
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.
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.
And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens, Are singing the selfsame strain.
Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend.
One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force.
Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
The glories of the possible are ours.
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.