This is truth the poet sings . . .

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin pie?

Despair is infidelity and death.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong.

The hope of all earnest souls must be realized.

The laws of changeless justice bind oppressor and oppressed; and, close as sin and suffering joined we march to fate abreast.

Oh, talk as we may of beauty as a thing to be chiselled from marble or wrought out on canvas, speculate as we may upon its colors and outlines, what is it but an intellectual abstraction, after all? The heart feels a beauty of another kind; looking through the outward environment, it discovers a deeper and more real love-liness.