Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Showers And Sunshine Bring, Slowly, The Deepening Verdure O'er The Earth; To Put Their Foliage Out, The Woods Are Slack, And One By One The Singing-birds Come Back.

Truth Gets Well If She Is Run Over By A Locomotive, While Error Dies Of Lockjaw If She Scratches Her Finger.

To Him Who In The Love Of Nature Holds Communion With Her Visible Forms, She Speaks A Various Language.

The Birch-bark Canoe Of The Savage Seems To Me One Of The Most Beautiful And Perfect Things Of The Kind Constructed By Human Art.

The Linden, In The Fervors Of July, Hums With A Louder Concert. When The Wind Sweeps The Broad Forest In Its Summer Prime, As When Some Master-hand Exulting Sweeps The Keys Of Some Great Organ, Ye Give Forth The Music Of The Woodland Depths, A Hymn Of Gladness And Of Thanks.