Quotes from Edmund Clarence Stedman

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.

Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Built up from you large hand appears: A type that nature wills to plan But once in all a people's years.

Above the clouds I lift my wing To hear the bells of Heaven ring; Some of their music, though my fights be wild, To Earth I bring; Then let me soar and sing!

Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art; the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence.

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.

Worth, courage, honor, these indeed Your sustenance and birthright are.

The imagination never dies.

Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.

Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting.

Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence.

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.

Yes, my Prince was such as they, Part of gold, and part of clay, ?Though his metal shone as bright, ?And his dross was hid from sight. He who brightest is, and best Still may fear the secret test ?That shall try his heart aright.

The Vestal, with her silvery content, ?The Lesbian, with the passion and the pain,— Which creature hath their one Creator lent ?More light of heaven? Who would dare restrain The beams of either? who the radiance mar Of the white planet or the burning star?

Yet the son ?Seemed worthy, for his parts were of that mould Oft-failing Nature strives to join in one, ?And shape a hero,—pure and wise and bold: In arts and arms the wonder of his peers, The flower of princes, prince of cavaliers;

O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!

Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time.

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?

Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective.

The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.

Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.