You’ve gut to git up airly Ef you want to take in God.

There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, He who would write and can’t write, can surely review.

And I honor the man who is willing to sink Half his present repute for the freedom to think, And, when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak, Will risk t’ other half for the freedom to speak.

In creating, the only hard thing’s to begin; A grass-blade’s no easier to make than an oak.

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking: ’Tis heaven alone that is given away, ’Tis only God may be had for the asking.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne— Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

Not only around our infancy Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not.

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.