Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest

The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery Sprays In Love; The Ivy Climbs The Laurel To Clasp The Boughs Above.

Ah, Why Should We, In The World's Riper Years, Neglect God's Ancient Sanctuaries, And Adore Only Among The Crowd And Under Roofs That Our Frail Hands Have Raised?

Thine Eyes Are Springs In Whose Serene And Silent Waters Heaven Is Seen. Their Lashes Are The Herbs That Look On Their Young Figures In The Brook.

Adversity Is The Nurse Of Greatness Which Roughly Rocks Her Patients Back To Health.

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.