An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.—Tennyson.
But Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Honor turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
Laughs louder than the laughing giant.—Holmes.
There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.—Lowell.
In winter, when the dismal rain