Top 32 Quotes & Sayings by Edmund Clarence Stedman
Explore popular quotes and sayings by an American poet Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Last updated on November 23, 2024.
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.
Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time.
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!
War! war! war!
Heaven aid the right!
God move the hero's arm in the fearful fight!
God send the women sleep in the long, long night,
When the breasts on whose strength they leaned shall heave no more.
A poet must sing for his own people.
Science has but one fashion-to lose nothing once gained.
The imagination never dies.
The poet is a creator, not an iconoclast, and never will tamely endeavor to say in prose what can only be expressed in song.
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.
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.
No, he was no such charlatan--
Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-Pan--
Full of gasconade and bravado,
But a regular, rich Don Rataplane,
Santa Claus de la Muscavado,
Senor Grandissimo Bastinado!
His was the rental of half Havana
And all Matanzas; and Santa Ana,
Rich as he was, could hardly hold
A candle to light the mines of gold
Our Cuban owned.
Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds.
Is there a rarer being,
Is there a fairer sphere
Where the strong are not unseeing,
And the harvests are not sere;
Where, ere the seasons dwindle
They yield their due return;
Where the lamps of knowledge kindle
While the flames of youth still burn?
A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager.
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?
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.
Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective.
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?
Progress comes by experiment, and this from ennui that leads to voyages, wars, revolutions, and plainly to change in the arts of expression; that cries out to the imagination, and is the nurse of the invention whereof we term necessity the mother.
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!
Music waves eternal wands,--
Enchantress of the souls of mortals!
O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life!
O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true!
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.
Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.
Worth, courage, honor, these indeed
Your sustenance and birthright are.
Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song.
Look on this cast, and know the hand That bore a nation in its hold; From this mute witness understand What Lincoln was - how large of mould.
No clouds are in the morning sky,
The vapors hug the stream,
Who says that life and love can die
In all this northern gleam?
At every turn the maples burn,
The quail is whistling free,
The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs
Are dropping for you and me.
Ho! hillyho! heigh O!
Hillyho!
In the clear October morning.
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 a lack of sincerity, of irresistible impulse in both the poet and the, composer.
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.
The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.
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