Eloquence Is The Poetry Of

I Hear The Howl Of The Wind That Brings The Long Drear Storm On Its Heavy Wings.

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

Poetry Is That Art Which Selects And Arranges The Symbols Of Thought In Such A Manner As To Excite The Imagination The Most Powerfully And Delightfully.

Much Has Seen Said Of The Wisdom Of Old Age. Old Age Is Wise, I Grant, For Itself, But Not Wise For The Community. It Is Wise In Declining New Enterprises, For It Has Not The Power Nor The Time To Execute Them; Wise In Shrinking From Difficulty, For It Has Not The Strength To Overcome It; Wise In Avoiding Danger, For It Lacks The Faculty Of Ready And Swift Action, By Which Dangers Are Parried And Converted Into Advantages. But This Is Not Wisdom For Mankind At Large, By Whom New Enterprises Must Be Undertaken, Dangers Met, And Difficulties Surmounted.

And Kind The Voice And Glad The Eyes That Welcome My Return At Night.