The morrow was a bright September morn; The earth was beautiful as if newborn; There was nameless splendor everywhere, That wild exhilaration in the air, Which makes the passers in the city street Congratulate each other as they meet.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowLife is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowLike black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow