Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
Is not thy home among the flowers?
The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.