Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

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

Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest Gold And Crimson, Yet Our Full-leaved Willows Are In The Freshest Green. Such A Kindly Autumn, So Mercifully Dealing With The Growths Of Summer, I Never Yet Have Seen.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.