Those Who Know The Truth Are Not

The English Puritans Pulled Down Church And State To Rebuild Zion On The Ruins, And All The While It Was Not Zion, But America, They Were Building.

What Visionary Tints The Year Puts On, When Falling Leaves Falter Through Motionless Air Or Numbly Cling And Shiver To Be Gone! How Shimmer The Low Flats And Pastures Bare, As With Her Nectar Hebe Autumn Fills The Bowl Between Me And Those Distant Hills, And Smiles And Shakes Abroad Her Misty, Tremulous Hair!

Fate Loves Best Such Syllables As Are Sweet And Sonorous On The Tongue.

To Have Greatly Dreamed Precludes Low Ends.

Tiny Salmoneus Of The Air His Mimic Bolts The Firefly Threw.