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

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

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

The imagination never dies.

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.

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?

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