Poetry Is The Morning Dream Of Great

Silence,--the Applause Of Real And Durable Impressions.

And When Night, Guiding Her Bright Train Of Stars, Throws O'er The Sleeping World Her Gloomy Veil, Lonely Amidst The Desert And The Darkness, Musing Upon The Night's Calm Majesty; Wrapt Up In Quietness, With Shade And Silence, My Soul More Closely Worshippeth Thy Presence; With An Internal Day I Feel Enlighten'd, And Hear A Voice, Which Biddeth Me To Hope.

France Is Revolutionary Or She Is Nothing At All. The Revolution Of1789 Is Her Political Religion.

We Are Earth's Children, And Life Is The Same In Sap As In Blood; All That The Earth, Our Mother, Feels And Expresses To The Eye By Her Form And Aspect, In Melancholy Or In Splendor, Finds An Echo Within Us.

Soul Of The Universe, Sire, God, Creator, Lord, I Believe In Thee, 'neath All These Names: And Without Having Need To Hear Thy Word, In The Sky's Brow My Glorious Creed I Trace.