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

The imagination never dies.

Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective.

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.

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.

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.