Childhood's the soul's first gala-day

But "God was still behind the skies," As stricken Agatha once had said, And He anoints the aiming spear Of grief, and blesses the bowing head.

Here and there a cloud is floating, White and fair as a nun in prayer.

The loveless are the unblest, Frosts transfix their grief, Like a wreck on a reef.

While the butter-cups toss golden heads, Consequential bees alight, Upon the downy saffron beds Of the dandelion, Fit for kings to lie on;There, a lazy butterfly, Like a thing adrift from Eden,

America, I raised a boy for you. America, you'll find him staunch and true, Place a gun upon his shoulder, He is ready to die or do. America, he is my only one; My hope, my pride and joy, But if I had another, He would march beside his …

All sensible people agree in thinking that large seminaries of young ladies, though managed with all the vigilance and caution which human abilities can exert, are in danger of great corruption.