Poetry is the eloquence of verse.

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.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

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.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

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

Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!