Edmund Clarence Stedman Quotes

Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.

Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed, thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

Look on this cast, and know the hand That bore a nation in its hold; From this mute witness understand What Lincoln was - how large of mould.

The poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely endeavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song.

A poet must sing for his own people.

The imagination never dies.

Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective.

The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.

Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.

Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time.

Progress comes by experiment, and this from ennui that leads to voyages, wars, revolutions, and plainly to change in the arts of expression; that cries out to the imagination, and is the nurse of the invention whereof we term necessity the mother.

Natural emotion is the soul of poetry, as melody is of music; the same faults are engendered by over-study of either art; there is a lack of sincerity, of irresistible impulse in both the poet and the, composer.

A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.

Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow?

Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds.

Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting.

The critic's first labor is the task of distinguishing between men, as history and their works display them, and the ideals which one and another have conspired to urge upon his acceptance.

Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art; the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence.