Truth Gets Well If She Is Run

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.

The Windflower And The Violet, They Perished Long Ago, And The Brier-rose And The Orchis Died Amid The Summer Glow; But On The Hills The Golden-rod, And The Aster In The Wood, And The Yellow Sunflower By The Brook, In Autumn Beauty Stood, Till Fell The First From The Clear Cold Heaven, As Falls The Plague On Men, And The Brightness Of Their Smile Was Gone, From Upland Glade And Glen.

The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

Alas! To Seize The Moment When The Heart Inclines To Heart, And Press A Suit With Passion, Is Not A Woman's Part. If Man Come Not To Gather The Roses Where They Stand, They Fade Among Their Foliage, They Cannot Seek His Hand.