Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited

If A Woman Shows Too Often The Medusa's Head, She Must Not Be Astonished If Her Lover Is Turned Into Stone.

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

The Rapture Of Pursuing Is The Prize The Vanquished Gain.

The Sunshine Fails, The Shadows Grow More Dreary, And I Am Near To Fall, Infirm And Weary.

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.