Perhaps the chief cause which has retarded the progress of poetry in America, is the want of that exclusive cultivation, which so noble a branch of literature would seem to require. Few here think of relying upon the exertion of poetic talent for a livelihood, and of making literature the profession of life. The bar or the pulpit claims the greater part of the scholar's existence, and poetry is made its pastime.
With useless endeavour Forever, forever, Is Sisyphus rolling His stone up the mountain!
Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again.
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
Perhaps there lives some dreamy boy, untaught In schools, some graduate of the field or street, Who shall become a master of art, An admiral sailing the high seas of thought Fearless and first, and steering with his fleet For lands not yet laid down in any chart.
For next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one.
Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.
Much must he toil who serves the Immortal Gods.
The Nile, forever new and old, Among the living and the dead, Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled.
Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.
Many have genius, but, wanting art, are forever dumb. The two must go together to form the great poet, painter, or sculptor.
The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.
Torrent of light and river of air, Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen, Like gold and silver sands in some ravine Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!
Decide not rashly. The decision made Can never be recalled. The gods implore not, Plead not, solicit not; they only offer Choice and occasion, which once being passed Return no more. Dost thou accept the gift?
A handful of red sand from the hot clime Of Arab deserts brought, Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, The minister of Thought.
Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.
The sentence of the first murderer was pronounced by the Supreme Judge of the universe. Was it death? No, it was life. 'A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth'; and 'Whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold.
Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.
Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!
God is not dead; nor doth He sleep; ... The wrong shall fail, The right prevail, With peace on earth, good will to men.
I stay a little longer, as one stays, to cover up the embers that still burn.
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike.
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone.
All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.
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