Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

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.

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

I Grieve For Life's Bright Promise, Just Shown And Then Withdrawn.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Your Peaks Are Beautiful, Ye Apennines! In The Soft Light Of These Serenest Skies; From The Broad Highland Region, Black With Pines, Fair As The Hills Of Paradise They Rise, Bathed In The Tint Peruvian Slaves Behold In Rosy Flushes On The Virgin Gold.