Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

A poet must sing for his own people.

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

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?

Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds.

Progress comes by experiment, and this from ennui that leads to voyages, wars, revolutions, and plainly to change in the arts of expression; that cries out to the imagination, and is the nurse of the invention whereof we term necessity the mother.

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