Genius does not need a special language; it uses newly whatever tongue it finds. Edmund Clarence Stedman More Quotes by Edmund Clarence Stedman More Quotes From Edmund Clarence Stedman Faith and joy are the ascensive forces of song. Edmund Clarence Stedman singing joy song Worth, courage, honor, these indeed Edmund Clarence Stedman birthright military honor Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective. Edmund Clarence Stedman amity egotism men Yes, there's a luck in most things; and in none more than being born at the right time. Edmund Clarence Stedman born right-time luck 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 endeavor poet song The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple. Edmund Clarence Stedman purple believe art 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. Edmund Clarence Stedman mother war art A critic must accept what is best in a poet, and thus become his best encourager. Edmund Clarence Stedman critics poet accepting 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. Edmund Clarence Stedman tasks acceptance men The imagination never dies. Edmund Clarence Stedman dies imagination Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting. Edmund Clarence Stedman fashion judging art Music waves eternal wands,-- Edmund Clarence Stedman wave music soul No clouds are in the morning sky, Edmund Clarence Stedman life-and-love sky morning But every human path leads on to God; Edmund Clarence Stedman drawing strong wish Above the clouds I lift my wing Edmund Clarence Stedman fighting clouds wings O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! Edmund Clarence Stedman dawn spring sweet A poet must sing for his own people. Edmund Clarence Stedman poet people Lo, as I gaze, the statured man, Edmund Clarence Stedman men hands years Poetry is an art, and chief of the fine art; the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true excellence. Edmund Clarence Stedman chiefs excellence art Let the winds blow! a fiercer gale Edmund Clarence Stedman blow may wind
