The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying

He [william Henry Harrison] Did Not Live Long Enough To Prove His Incapacity For The Office Of President.

The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And Tints The Buds And Swells The Leaves Within.

Father, Thy Hand Hath Reared These Venerable Columns, Thou Didst Weave This Verdant Roof. Thou Didst Look Down Upon The Naked Earth, And, Forthwith, Rose All These Fair Ranks Of Trees. They, In Thy Sun, Budded, And Shook Their Green Leaves In Thy Breeze, And Shot Towards Heaven.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!