Thomas Bailey
Thomas Bailey
civilization skins revolution
Civilization is the lamb's skin in which barbarism masquerades.
rain wind rivers
We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind,-and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
passion men air
Wide open and unguarded stand our gates And through them presses a wild motley throng Men from the Volga and the Tartar steppes Featureless figures of the Hoang-Ho Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, and Slav Flying the Old World's poverty and scorn These bringing with them unknown gods and rites Those, tiger passions, here to stretch their claws In street and alley what strange tongues are loud Accents of menace alien to our air Voices that once the Tower of Babel knew! O Liberty, white Goddess! Is it well To leave the gates unguarded?
summer spring fall
What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open-wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood? Those are the ghosts of the robins and blue-birds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last Spring. In Summer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round.
voice shadow generations
Great orators who are not also great writers become very indistinct shadows to the generations following them. The spell vanishes with the voice.
sunset sea fire
Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows in yonder West; the fair, frail palaces, The fading Alps and archipelagoes and great cloud continents of sunset-seas.
eye night wings
Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings.
art masters laurels
The laurels of an orator who is not a master of literary art wither quickly.
fall men eden
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird's throat; Since Eden's freshness and man's fall No rose has been original.
air may honey
Hebe's here, May is here! The air is fresh and sunny; And the miser-bees are busy Hoarding golden honey.
dream twilight sleep
But I, in the chilling twilight stand and wait At the portcullis, at thy castle gate, Longing to see the charmed door of dreams Turn on its noiseless hinges, delicate sleep!
sweet done guests
When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host.
new-york men doors
Imagine all human beings swept off the face of the earth, excepting one man. Imagine this man in some vast city, New York or London. Imagine him on the third or fourth day of his solitude sitting in a house and hearing a ring at the door-bell!
believe heart sight
It is the Lord's Day, and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His sight.