Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.

So They, Who Climb To Wealth, Forget The Friends In Darker Fortunes Tried. I Copied Them--but I Regret That I Should Ape The Ways Of Pride.

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

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