The Groves Were God's First Temples.

Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.