I Long For Scenes Where Man Has

Old April Wanes, And Her Last Dewy Morn Her Death-bed Steeps In Tears; To Hail The May New Blooming Blossoms Neath The Sun Are Born, And All Poor April's Charms Are Swept Away.

Love Lives With Nature, Not With Lust. Go Find Her In The Flowers.

And What Is Life? - An Hour-glass On The Run

Old Noted Oak! I Saw Thee In A Mood Of Vague Indifference; And Yet With Me Thy Memory, Like Thy Fate, Hath Lingering Stood For Years, Thou Hermit, In The Lonely Sea Of Grass That Waves Around Thee!

In Mid-wood Silence, Thus, How Sweet To Be; Where All The Noises, That On Peace Intrude, Come From The Chittering Cricket, Bird, And Bee, Whose Songs Have Charms To Sweeten Solitude.