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?

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

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

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

The imagination never dies.

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