Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time.

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 poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely endeavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song.

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.

Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting.

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

Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time.