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… — 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
Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds. — Edmund Clarence Stedman Copy Share Image
