Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

Difficulty, My Brethren, Is The Nurse Of Greatness - A Harsh Nurse, Who Roughly Rocks Her Foster Children Into Strength And Athletic Proportion.

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.

Poetry Is That Art Which Selects And Arranges The Symbols Of Thought In Such A Manner As To Excite The Imagination The Most Powerfully And Delightfully.

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.

Ah, Why Should We, In The World's Riper Years, Neglect God's Ancient Sanctuaries, And Adore Only Among The Crowd And Under Roofs That Our Frail Hands Have Raised?