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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.

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
Show
Journal
Olden
Shows
Gaps
Writ
Heart
Slow
Lighted
Years
Tears
Deliverance
Time
Poet
Lamp
Poetry
Lamps
Blood
Beating
Fire
Rhyme

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The most annoying of all blockheads is a well-read fool.
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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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Life lives only in success.
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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.
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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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Learn to live, and live to learn, Ignorance like a fire doth burn, Little tasks make large return.
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But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.
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Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses
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The bravest are the most tender the loving are the daring.
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Really,' thought I, 'we call Baltimore the 'Monumental City' for its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every street-corner!
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Eccentricity is developed monomania.
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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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Love's humility is love's true pride.
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Alone each heart must cover up its dead Alone, through bitter toil, achieve its rest.
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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.
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Labor, you know, is prayer.
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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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I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.
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Love is better than Fame.
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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.
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