In Vain Would Science Scan And Trace

Though My Verse But Roam The Air And Murmur In The Trees, You May Discern A Purpose There, As In Music Of The Bees.

So, Timely You Came, And Well You Chose, You Came When Most Needed, My Winter Rose. From The Snow I Pluck You, And Fondly Press Your Leaves 'twixt The Leaves Of My Leaflessness.

No Verse Which Is Unmusical Or Obscure Can Be Regarded As Poetry Whatever Other Qualities It May Possess.

Perhaps A Maiden's Bashfulness Is More A Matron's Lesson Than Our Lips Aver.

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.