These Struggling Tides Of Life That Seem

Pleasantly, Between The Pelting Showers, The Sunshine Gushes Down.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.

The Windflower And The Violet, They Perished Long Ago, And The Brier-rose And The Orchis Died Amid The Summer Glow; But On The Hills The Golden-rod, And The Aster In The Wood, And The Yellow Sunflower By The Brook, In Autumn Beauty Stood, Till Fell The First From The Clear Cold Heaven, As Falls The Plague On Men, And The Brightness Of Their Smile Was Gone, From Upland Glade And Glen.

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

The Right To Discuss Freely And Openly, By Speech, By The Pen, By The Press, All Political Questions, And To Examine The Animadvert Upon All Political Institutions Is A Right So Clear And Certain, So Interwoven With Our Other Liberties, So Necessary, In Fact, To Their Existence, That Without It We Must Fall Into Despotism And Anarchy.