I Lost The Love Of Heaven Above

Yet Simple Souls, Their Faith It Knows No Stint: Things Least To Be Believed Are Most Preferred. All Counterfeits, As From Truth's Sacred Mint, Are Readily Believed If Once Put Down In Print

Loud Is The Summer's Busy Song The Smallest Breeze Can Find A Tongue, While Insects Of Each Tiny Size Grow Teasing With Their Melodies, Till Noon Burns With Its Blistering Breath Around, And Day Lies Still As Death.

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.

Now Summer Is In Flower And Natures Hum Is Never Silent Round Her Sultry Bloom Insects As Small As Dust Are Never Done Wi' Glittering Dance And Reeling In The Sun And Green Wood Fly And Blossom Haunting Bee Are Never Weary Of Their Melody Round Field Hedge Now Flowers In Full Glory Twine Large Bindweed Bells Wild Hop And Streakd Woodbine That Lift Athirst Their Slender Throated Flowers Agape For Dew Falls And For Honey Showers These Round Each Bush In Sweet Disorder Run And Spread Their Wild Hues To The Sultry Sun.

He Could Not Die When The Trees Were Green, For He Loved The Time Too Well.