How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.