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

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

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

The imagination never dies.

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?

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.