Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Where Are The Flowers, The Fair Young Flowers, That Lately Sprang And Stood In Brighter Light And Softer Airs, A Beauteous Sisterhood?

So They, Who Climb To Wealth, Forget The Friends In Darker Fortunes Tried. I Copied Them--but I Regret That I Should Ape The Ways Of Pride.

The Windflower And The Violet, They Perished Long Ago, And The Brier-rose And The Orchis Died Amid The Summer Glow; But On The Hills The Golden-rod, And The Aster In The Wood, And The Yellow Sunflower By The Brook, In Autumn Beauty Stood, Till Fell The First From The Clear Cold Heaven, As Falls The Plague On Men, And The Brightness Of Their Smile Was Gone, From Upland Glade And Glen.

Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson, Yet Our Full-leaved Willows Are In The Freshest Green. Such A Kindly Autumn, So Mercifully Dealing With The Growths Of Summer, I Never Yet Have Seen.