The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour

Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Error's Monstrous Shapes From Earth Are Driven They Fade, They Fly--but Truth Survives The Flight.

The Breath Of Springtime At This Twilight Hour Comes Through The Gathering Glooms, And Bears The Stolen Sweets Of Many A Flower Into My Silent Rooms.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.

The Groves Were God's First Temple. Ere Man Learned To Hew The Shaft, And Lay The Architrave, And Spread The Roof Above Them,--ere He Framed The Lofty Vault, To Gather And Roll Back The Sound Of Anthems; In The Darkling Wood, Amidst The Cool And Silence, He Knelt Down And Offered To The Mightiest Solemn Thanks And Supplication.