Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

A Herd Of Prairie-wolves Will Enter A Field Of Melons And Quarrel About The Division Of The Spoils As Fiercely And Noisily As So Many Politicians.

Father, Thy Hand Hath Reared These Venerable Columns, Thou Didst Weave This Verdant Roof. Thou Didst Look Down Upon The Naked Earth, And, Forthwith, Rose All These Fair Ranks Of Trees. They, In Thy Sun, Budded, And Shook Their Green Leaves In Thy Breeze, And Shot Towards Heaven.

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!

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.

Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget.