Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

The Gay Will Laugh When Thou Art Gone, The Solemn Brood Of Care Plod On, And Each One As Before Will Chase His Favourite Phantom; Yet All These Shall Leave Their Mirth And Their Employments, And Shall Come, And Make Their Bed With Thee.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.

On Rolls The Stream With A Perpetual Sigh; The Rocks Moan Wildly As It Passes By; Hyssop And Wormwood Border All The Strand, And Not A Flower Adorns The Dreary Land.