Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

And Kind The Voice And Glad The Eyes That Welcome My Return At Night.

The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

The Summer Day Is Closed - The Sun Is Set: Well They Have Done Their Office, Those Bright Hours, The Latest Of Whose Train Goes Softly Out In The Red West. The Green Blade Of The Ground Has Risen, And Herds Have Cropped It; The Young Twig Has Spread Its Plaited Tissues To The Sun; Flowers Of The Garden And The Waste Have Blown And Withered; Seeds Have Fallen Upon The Soil, From Bursting Cells, And In Their Graves Await Their Resurrection. Insects From The Pools Have Filled The Air Awhile With Humming Wings, That Now Are Still For Ever; Painted Moths Have Wandered The Blue Sky, And Died Again