Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

The Melancholy Days Are Come, The Saddest Of The Year, Of Wailing Winds, And Naked Woods And Meadows Brown And Sear.

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!

Oh, River! Darkling River! What A Voice Is That Thou Utterest While All Else Is Still-- The Ancient Voice That, Centuries Ago, Sounded Between Thy Hills, While Rome Was Yet A Weedy Solitude By Tiber's Stream!

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?