The Laws Of Nature Are Just, But

Feeling Is Deep And Still; And The Word That Floats On The Surface Is As The Tossing Buoy, That Betrays Where The Anchor Is Hidden.

And As She Looked Around, She Saw How Death The Consoler, Laying His Hand Upon Many A Heart, Had Healed It Forever.

Perhaps The Chief Cause Which Has Retarded The Progress Of Poetry In America, Is The Want Of That Exclusive Cultivation, Which So Noble A Branch Of Literature Would Seem To Require. Few Here Think Of Relying Upon The Exertion Of Poetic Talent For A Livelihood, And Of Making Literature The Profession Of Life. The Bar Or The Pulpit Claims The Greater Part Of The Scholar's Existence, And Poetry Is Made Its Pastime.

Our Ingress Into The World Was Naked And Bare; Our Progress Through The World Is Trouble And Care.

Oh, What A Glory Doth This World Put On, For Him Who With A Fervent Heart Goes Forth Under The Bright And Glorious Sky, And Looks On Duties Well Performed, And Days Well Spent.