Still Sweet With Blossoms Is

There Is A Power Whose Care Teaches Thy Way.

Oh, River! Darkling River! What A Voice Is That Thou Utterest While All Else Is Still-- The Ancient Voice That, Centuries Ago, Sounded Between Thy Hills, While Rome Was Yet A Weedy Solitude By Tiber's Stream!

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

The Journalist Should Be On His Guard Against Publishing What Is False In Taste Or Exceptionable In Morals.

Or, Bide Thou Where The Poppy Blows With Windflowers Fail And Fair.