The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.