Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness,

And Suns Grow Meek, And The Meek Suns Grow Brief, And The Year Smiles As It Draws Near Its Death.

These Struggling Tides Of Life That Seem In Wayward, Aimless Course To Tend, Are Eddies Of The Mighty Stream That Rolls To Its Appointed End.

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

But Winter Has Yet Brighter Scenes-he Boasts Splendors Beyond What Gorgeous Summer Knows; Or Autumn With His Many Fruits, And Woods All Flushed With Many Hues.

Truth Gets Well If She Is Run Over By A Locomotive, While Error Dies Of Lockjaw If She Scratches Her Finger.