To Make The Common Marvelous Is The

That Pernicious Sentiment, "our Country, Right Or Wrong."

Now On The Hills I Hear The Thunder Mutter... Nearer And Nearer Rolls The Thunder-clap, - You Can Hear The Quick Heart Of The Tempest Beat.... Look! Look! That Livid Flash! And Instantly Follows The Rattling Thunder, As If Some Cloud-crag, Split Asunder, Fell, Splintering With A Ruinous Crash, On The Earth, Which Crouches In Silence Under; And Now A Solid Gray Wall Of Rain Shuts Off The Landscape, Mile By Mile.

It Is Right Precious To Behold The First Long Surf Of Climbing Light Flood All The Thirsty East With Gold.

Compromise Makes A Good Umbrella, But A Poor Roof.

Sorrow Is The Great Idealizer.