poem index


Bayard Taylor

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

He was a boy when first we met;

     His eyes were mixed of dew and fire,

And on his candid brow was set

     The sweetness of a chaste desire:

But in his veins the pulses beat

     Of passion, waiting for its wing,

As ardent veins of summer heat

     Throb through the innocence of spring.

As manhood