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?

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.

Look on this cast, and know the hand That bore a nation in its hold; From this mute witness understand What Lincoln was - how large of mould.

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

The imagination never dies.

A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.