SPRING SONG.
Reading edition
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.