Many A Poem Is Marred By A

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

Sunday Is The Golden Clasp That Binds Together The Volume Of The Week.

Perhaps There Lives Some Dreamy Boy, Untaught In Schools, Some Graduate Of The Field Or Street, Who Shall Become A Master Of Art, An Admiral Sailing The High Seas Of Thought Fearless And First, And Steering With His Fleet For Lands Not Yet Laid Down In Any Chart.

The Surest Pledge Of A Deathless Name Is The Silent Homage Of Thoughts Unspoken.

In This World A Man Must Either Be Anvil Or Hammer.