The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying

The Linden, In The Fervors Of July, Hums With A Louder Concert. When The Wind Sweeps The Broad Forest In Its Summer Prime, As When Some Master-hand Exulting Sweeps The Keys Of Some Great Organ, Ye Give Forth The Music Of The Woodland Depths, A Hymn Of Gladness And Of Thanks.

The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery Sprays In Love; The Ivy Climbs The Laurel To Clasp The Boughs Above.

Difficulty Is The Nurse Of Greatness.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.

Thou Blossom Bright With Autumn Dew, And Colored With The Heaven's Own Blue.