The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

Genius, With All Its Pride In Its Own Strength, Is But A Dependent Quality, And Cannot Put Forth Its Whole Powers Nor Claim All Its Honors Without An Amount Of Aid From The Talents And Labors Of Others Which It Is Difficult To Calculate.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.