Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold

I Long For Scenes Where Man Has Never Trod; A Place Where Woman Never Smil'd Or Wept; There To Abide With My Creator, God, And Sleep As I In Childhood Sweetly Slept: Untroubling And Untroubled Where I Lie; The Grass Below--above The Vaulted Sky.

My Fears Are Agitated To An Extreme Degree And The Dread Of Death Involves Me In A Stupor Of Chilling Indisposition.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.

I Live Here Among The Ignorant Like A Lost Man In Fact Like One Whom The Rest Seems Careless Of Having Anything To Do With — They Hardly Dare Talk In My Company For Fear I Shoud Mention Them In My Writings & I Find More Pleasure In Wandering The Fields Then In Mixing Among My Silent Neighbours Who Are Insensible Of Everything But Toiling & Talking Of It & That To No Purpose.

If Life Had A Second Edition, How I Would Correct The Proofs.