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Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.
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The summer day is closed - the sun is set: Well they have done their office, those bright hours, The latest of whose train goes softly out In the red west. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, From bursting cells, and in their graves await Their resurrection. Insects from the pools Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, That now are still for ever; painted moths Have wandered the blue sky, and died again
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear
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The stormy March has come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies.
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There's freedom at thy gates and rest For Earth's downtrodden and oppressed,
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