Don't ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his hand trembles! If they … - Oliver Wendell Holmes

And silence, like a poultice, comes To heal the blows of sound.

But to radiate the heat of the affections into a clod, which absorbs all that is poured into it, but never warms beneath the sunshine of smiles or the pressure of hand or lip,—this is the great martyrdom of sensitive beings,—most of all in that perpetual auto da fé where young womanhood is the sacrifice.

Where go the poet's lines? Answer, ye evening tapers!
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls, Speak from your folded papers!