Quote

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

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Bayard Taylor
Age: 53 †
Born: 1825
Born: January 11
Died: 1878
Died: December 19
Critic
Diplomat
Explorer
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
Fire
Rhyme
Show
Journal
Olden
Shows
Gaps
Writ
Heart
Slow
Lighted
Years
Tears
Deliverance
Time
Poet
Lamp
Poetry
Lamps
Blood
Beating

More quotes by Bayard Taylor

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Alone each heart must cover up its dead Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
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Love is better than Fame.
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Women are not apt to be won by the charms of verse.
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The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
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Peace the offspring is of Power.
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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.
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Life lives only in success.
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I was pleasantly disappointed on entering Bohemia. Instead of a dull, uninteresting country, as I expected, it is a land full of the most lovely scenery. There is every thing which can gratify the eye - high blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old ruins.
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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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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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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.
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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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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.
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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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The bravest are the most tender the loving are the daring.
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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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I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
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Swelling in anger or sparkling in glee.
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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 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.
Bayard Taylor