Glorious Are The Woods In Their Latest

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

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.

I Grieve For Life's Bright Promise, Just Shown And Then Withdrawn.

Truth Crushed To The Earth Will Rise Again!

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.