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 Copy Share Image
Above the clouds I lift my wing To hear the bells of Heaven ring; Some of their music, though my fights be wild, To… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
The poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely endeavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song. — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
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… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Built up from you large hand appears: A type that nature wills to plan But once in… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
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… — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet. — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting. — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Music waves eternal wands,-- Enchantress of the souls of mortals! — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds. — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
