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?

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

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

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

Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.

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