Hope . . . Never Stops At

Fame Is A Bee It Has A Song - It Has A Sting - Ah, Too, It Has A Wing.

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

When We Think Of His Lone Effort To Live And Its Bleak Reward, The Mind Turns To The Myth "for His Mercy Endureth Forever," With Confiding Revulsion.

Nature, Like Us Is Sometimes Caught Without Her Diadem.

I'll Tell You How The Sun Rose, A Ribbon At A Time. The Steeples Swam In Amethyst, The News Like Squirrels Ran. The Hills Untied Their Bonnets, The Bobolinks Begun. Then I Said Softly To Myself, "that Must Have Been The Sun!