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

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?

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

The imagination never dies.

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

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.