Bayard Taylor

The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.

The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.

When May, with cowslip-braided locks,
Walks through the land in green attire.
And burns in meadow-grass the read more

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!

And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.

And the wind that saddens, the sea that gladdens,
Are singing the selfsame strain.

But who will watch my lilies,
When their blossoms open white?
By day the sun shall be read more

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!

Shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.

Shelved around us lie
The mummied authors.