And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine

Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness, When Words Are All Too Weak.

The Moon Is At Her Full, And Riding High, Floods The Calm Fields With Light. The Airs That Hover In The Summer Sky Are All Asleep To-night.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

Look On This Beautiful World, And Read The Truth In Her Fair Page.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.