Quote

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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Edmund Clarence Stedman
Age: 74 †
Born: 1833
Born: October 8
Died: 1908
Died: January 18
Banker
Literary Critic
Poet
Hartford
Connecticut
Stills
Wings
Upper
Still
Sky
Blast
May
Spring
Chill
Find
Whose
Wing
Firsts
Color
Southern
Bluebird
First
Told
Flight
Canst
Song
Thou
Whither
Away
Speed
Hue

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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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Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence.
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Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
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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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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!
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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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Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
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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.
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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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A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.
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Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
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The imagination never dies.
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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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Worth, courage, honor, these indeed Your sustenance and birthright are.
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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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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.
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Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
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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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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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O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
Edmund Clarence Stedman