And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine

On Rolls The Stream With A Perpetual Sigh; The Rocks Moan Wildly As It Passes By; Hyssop And Wormwood Border All The Strand, And Not A Flower Adorns The Dreary Land.

There Is A Day Of Sunny Rest For Every Dark And Troubled Night; And Grief May Hide An Evening Guest, But Joy Shall Come With Early Light.

Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget.

Go Forth Under The Open Sky, And List To Nature's Teachings.

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.