The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery

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

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.

The Press, Important As Is Its Office, Is But The Servant Of The Human Intellect, And Its Ministry Is For Good Or For Evil, According To The Character Of Those Who Direct It. The Press Is A Mill Which Grinds All That Is Put Into Its Hopper. Fill The Hopper With Poisoned Grain, And It Will Grind It To Meal, But There Is Death In The Bread.

And Kind The Voice And Glad The Eyes That Welcome My Return At Night.

Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.