I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.

Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.