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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.

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
Days
Sunset
Call
Miss
Song
Master
Plaintive
Fall
Sing
Locusts
Long
Shadow
Cattle
Summer
August
Masters
Shadows
Missing
Weary

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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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Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
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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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Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
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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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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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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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A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.
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O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
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Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
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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?
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