There Is Not A String Attuned To

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

Peace And Rest At Length Have Come, All The Day's Long Toil Is Past; And Each Heart Is Whispering, "home, Home At Last!"

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence.

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?