Crowded Places, I Shunned Them As Noises

Summer Is A Prodigal Of Joy. The Grass Swarms With Delighted Insects As I Pass, And Crowds Of Grasshoppers At Every Stride Jump Out All Ways With Happiness Their Guide; And From My Brushing Feet Moths Flit Away In Safer Places To Pursue Their Play. In Crowds They Start. I Marvel, Well I May, To See Such Worlds Of Insects In The Way, And More To See Each Thing, However Small, Sharing Joy's Bounty That Belongs To All. And Here I Gather, By The World Forgot, Harvests Of Comfort From Their Happy Mood, Feeling God's Blessing Dwells In Every Spot And Nothing Lives But Owes Him Gratitude.

When Trouble Haunts Me, Need I Sigh?no, Rather Smile Away Despair

I Am The Self-consumer Of My Woes.

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.