People Demand Freedom Only When They Have

And The Bright Faces Of My Young Companions Are Wrinkled Like My Own, Or Are No More.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

All Things Are Symbols: The External Shows Of Nature Have Their Image In The Mind , As Flowers And Fruits And Falling Of The Leaves.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

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.