The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.