Virtue Cannot Dwell With Slaves, Nor Reign

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.

Thine Eyes Are Springs In Whose Serene And Silent Waters Heaven Is Seen. Their Lashes Are The Herbs That Look On Their Young Figures In The Brook.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Virtue Cannot Dwell With Slaves, Nor Reign O'er Those Who Cower To Take A Tyrant's Yoke.

Look On This Beautiful World, And Read The Truth In Her Fair Page.