Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson, Yet Our Full-leaved Willows Are In The Freshest Green. Such A Kindly Autumn, So Mercifully Dealing With The Growths Of Summer, I Never Yet Have Seen.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.