Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

And Suns Grow Meek, And The Meek Suns Grow Brief, And The Year Smiles As It Draws Near Its Death.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

Ye Winds Ye Unseen Currents Of The Air, Softly Ye Played A Few Brief Hours Ago; Ye Bore The Murmuring Bee; Ye Tossed The Air O'er Maiden Cheeks, That Took A Fresher Glow; Ye Rolled The Round White Cloud Through Depths Of Blue; Ye Shook From Shaded Flowers The Lingering Dew; Before You The Catalpa's Blossoms Flew, Light Blossoms, Dropping On The Grass Like Snow.

Thine Eyes Are Springs In Whose Serene And Silent Waters Heaven Is Seen. Their Lashes Are The Herbs That Look On Their Young Figures In The Brook.