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

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

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?

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.

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.

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