There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem as "The Tree Lover." "Who loves a tree he loves the life That springs in flower and clover; He loves the love that gilds the cloud, And greens the April sod; He loves the wide beneficence, His soul takes hold of God." We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature.

"The world is too much with us." It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss passed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood.
Later he will be regarded as an eminent American.
He was true to our age to the core.

Whether he wrote of the gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy, the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after we have left it--he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest thought.

The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the apostles of steel and brute force.

Not the Hannibals and Caesars and Kaisers but the Shelleys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are our saviours.