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?

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?

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

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.

A poet must sing for his own people.

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

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