Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.

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.

Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

So Live, That When Thy Summons Comes To Join, The Innumerable Caravan Which Moves, To That Mysterious Realm Where Each Shall Take, His Chamber In The Silent Halls Of Death, Thou Go Not, Like The Quarry-slave At Night, Scourged By His Dungeon, But, Sustained And Soothed, By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch, About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.