Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!

Adversity Is The Nurse Of Greatness Which Roughly Rocks Her Patients Back To Health.

Can Anything Be Imagined More Abhorrent To Every Sentiment Of Generosity And Justice, Than The Law Which Arms The Rich With The Legal Right To Fix, By Assize, The Wages Of The Poor? If This Is Not Slavery, We Have Forgotten Its Definition. Strike The Right Of Associating For The Sale Of Labor From The Privileges Of A Freeman, And You May As Well Bind Him To A Master, Or Ascribe Him To The Soil.

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!

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.