Music Is Not Merely A Study, It

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

Your Peaks Are Beautiful, Ye Apennines! In The Soft Light Of These Serenest Skies; From The Broad Highland Region, Black With Pines, Fair As The Hills Of Paradise They Rise, Bathed In The Tint Peruvian Slaves Behold In Rosy Flushes On The Virgin Gold.

The Summer Morn Is Bright And Fresh, The Birds Are Darting By. As If They Loved To Breast The Breeze That Sweeps The Cool Clear Sky.