Each Violet Peeps From Its Dwelling To

God Has Given Us Speech In Order That We May Say Pleasant Things To Our Friends, And Tell Bitter Truths To Our Enemies.

The Night Comes Stealing O'er Me, And Clouds Are On The Sea; While The Wavelets Rustle Before Me With A Mystical Melody.

Round My Cradle Shimmered The Last Moonbeams Of The Eighteenth Century And The First Morning Rays Of The Nineteenth.

The Deepest Truth Blooms Only From The Deepest Love.

Glow-worms On The Ground Are Moving, As If In The Torch-dance Circling.