And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.
Winning isn't everything, but it beats anything in second place.
Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
Follow thou thy choice.
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.