Toward No Crimes Have Men Shown Themselves

Greatly Begin. Though Thou Have Time, But For A Line, Be That Sublime. Not Failure, But Low Aim Is Crime.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan, Repeating Us By Rote.

Old Events Have Modern Meanings; Only That Survives Of Past History Which Finds Kindred In All Hearts And Lives.

The Ash Her Purple Drops Forgivingly And Sadly, Breaking Not The General Hush; The Maple Swamps Glow Like A Sunset Sea, Each Leaf A Ripple With Its Separate Flush; All Round The Wood's Edge Creeps The Skirting Blaze, Ere The Rain Falls, The Cautious Farmer Burns His Brush.

Here Come The Hum The Golden Bees Underneath Full Blossomed Trees, At Once With Glowing Fruit And Flowers Crowned.