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

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

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

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

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?

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

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.