Four Seasons Fill The Measure Of The

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.