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

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

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

A poet must sing for his own people.

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?

Natural emotion is the soul of poetry, as melody is of music; the same faults are engendered by over-study of either art; there is a lack of sincerity, of irresistible impulse in both the poet and the, composer.

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