Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign; And After Dreams Of Horror, Comes Again The Welcome Morning With Its Rays Of Peace.

Ah, Passing Few Are They Who Speak, Wild, Stormy Month! In Praise Of Thee; Yet Though Thy Winds Are Loud And Bleak, Thou Art A Welcome Month To Me. For Thou, To Northern Lands, Again The Glad And Glorious Sun Dost Bring, And Thou Hast Joined The Gentle Train And Wear'st The Gentle Name Of Spring.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine Peeps In.

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.