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Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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Edmund Clarence Stedman
Age: 74 †
Born: 1833
Born: October 8
Died: 1908
Died: January 18
Banker
Literary Critic
Poet
Hartford
Connecticut
Art
Easiest
True
Chief
Chiefs
Excellence
Hardest
Reach
Poetry
Fine
Dabble
More quotes by Edmund Clarence Stedman
Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
The imagination never dies.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Give us a man of God's own mould Born to marshall his fellow-men One whose fame is not bought and sold At the stroke of a politician's pen. Give us the man of thousands ten, Fit to do as well as to plan Give us a rallying-cry, and then Abraham Lincoln, give us a Man.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Genius does not need a special language it uses newly whatever tongue it finds.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Let the winds blow! a fiercer gale Is wild within me! what may quell That sullen tempest? I must sail Whither, O whither, who can tell!
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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?
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Worth, courage, honor, these indeed Your sustenance and birthright are.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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?
Edmund Clarence Stedman
O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
Edmund Clarence Stedman
The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
The weary August days are long The locusts sing a plaintive song, The cattle miss their master's call When they see the sunset shadows fall.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
But every human path leads on to God He holds a myriad finer threads than gold, And strong as holy wishes, drawing us With delicate tension upward to Himself.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
War! war! war! Heaven aid the right! God move the hero's arm in the fearful fight! God send the women sleep in the long, long night, When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Yes, there's a luck in most things and in none more than being born at the right time.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
Edmund Clarence Stedman
