The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh,

Winning Isn't Everything, But It Beats Anything In Second Place.

A Silence, The Brief Sabbath Of An Hour, Reigns O'er The Fields; The Laborer Sits Within His Dwelling; He Has Left His Steers Awhile, Unyoked, To Bite The Herbage, And His Dog Sleeps Stretched Beside The Door-stone In The Shade. Now The Gray Marmot, With Uplifted Paws, No More Sits Listening By His Den, But Steals Abroad, In Safety, To The Clover-field, And Crops Its Juicy-blossoms.

Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.

All Great Poets Have Been Men Of Great Knowledge.

Yet Will That Beauteous Image Make The Dreary Sea Less Drear And Thy Remembered Smile Will Wake The Hope That Tramples Fear