Spring comes hither,
Buds the rose;
Roses wither,
Sweet Spring goes.
Summer soars,—
Wide-winged day;
White light pours,
Flies away.
Soft winds blow,
Westward born;
Onward go,
Toward the morn.
—_George Eliot._
Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute.
—_C. C. Pinckney._