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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

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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
Must
Winds
Sail
Wild
Quell
Blow
Fiercer
Wind
Whither
Within
Sullen
Tell
Gale
May
Tempest

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Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
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Worth, courage, honor, these indeed Your sustenance and birthright are.
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The critic's first labor is the task of distinguishing between men, as history and their works display them, and the ideals which one and another have conspired to urge upon his acceptance.
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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?
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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.
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A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.
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Genius does not need a special language it uses newly whatever tongue it finds.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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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.
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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.
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The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.
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Yes, there's a luck in most things and in none more than being born at the right time.
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Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
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The imagination never dies.
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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
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O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
Edmund Clarence Stedman
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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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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
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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
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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