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?

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.

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

The imagination never dies.

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

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