Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.