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.

Poetry is the eloquence of verse.

A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

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

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.