The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

Poetry Is That Art Which Selects And Arranges The Symbols Of Thought In Such A Manner As To Excite The Imagination The Most Powerfully And Delightfully.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

It Is A Sultry Day; The Sun Has Drunk The Dew That Lay Upon The Morning Grass; There Is No Rustling In The Lofty Elm That Canopies My Dwelling, And Its Shade Scarce Cools Me. All Is Silent, Save The Faint And Interrupted Murmur Of The Bee, Settling On The Sick Flowers, And Then Again Instantly On The Wing.

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!