Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

All Things That Are On Earth Shall Wholly Pass Away, Except The Love Of God, Which Shall Live And Last For Aye.

These Struggling Tides Of Life That Seem In Wayward, Aimless Course To Tend, Are Eddies Of The Mighty Stream That Rolls To Its Appointed End.

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.

Oh, Constellations Of The Early Night That Sparkled Brighter As The Twilight Died, And Made The Darkness Glorious! I Have Seen Your Rays Grow Dim Upon The Horizon's Edge And Sink Behind The Mountains. I Have Seen The Great Orion, With His Jewelled Belt, That Large-limbed Warrior Of The Skies, Go Down Into The Gloom. Beside Him Sank A Crowd Of Shining Ones.

To Him Who In The Love Of Nature Holds Communion With Her Visible Forms, She Speaks A Various Language.