The Dawn Is Not Distant, Nor Is

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

I Am Weary Of Your Quarrels, Weary Of Your Wars And Bloodshed, Weary Of Your Prayers For Vengeance, Of Your Wranglings And Dissensions

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

The Helicon Of Too Many Poets Is Not A Hill Crowned With Sunshine And Visited By The Muses And The Graces, But An Old, Mouldering House, Full Of Gloom And Haunted By Ghosts.

How Can I Tell The Signals And The Signs By Which One Heart Another Heart Divines? How Can I Tell The Many Thousand Ways By Which It Keeps The Secret It Betrays?