Ye Towers Of Julius, London's

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.

Hell Is Full Of Good Intentions.

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

The Attic Warbler Pours Her Throat, Responsive To The Cuckoo's Note, The Untaught Harmony Of Spring.

In The Evening, I Walked Alone Down To The Lake By The Side Of Crow Park After Sunset And Saw The Solemn Coloring Of Night Draw On, The Last Gleam Of Sunshine Fading Away On The Hilltops, The Seep Serene Of The Asters, And The Long Shadows Of The Mountains Thrown Across Them, Till They Nearly Touched The Hithermost Shore. At Distance Hear The Murmur Of Many Waterfalls Not Audible In The Day-time. Wished For The Moon, But She Was Dark To Me And Silent, Hid In Her Vacant Interlunar Cave.