All Great Poets Have Been Men Of

The Journalist Should Be On His Guard Against Publishing What Is False In Taste Or Exceptionable In Morals.

Loveliest Of Lovely Things Are They, On Earth, That Soonest Pass Away. The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyond The Sculptured Flower.

I Grieve For Life's Bright Promise, Just Shown And Then Withdrawn.

It Is A Sultry Day; The Sun Has Drunk The Dew That Lay Upon The Morning Grass; There Is No Rustling In The Lofty Elm That Canopies My Dwelling, And Its Shade Scarce Cools Me. All Is Silent, Save The Faint And Interrupted Murmur Of The Bee, Settling On The Sick Flowers, And Then Again Instantly On The Wing.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.