Birds Buildbut Not I Build; No, But

And The Headbonny Ash That Sits Over The Burn. What Would The World Be, Once Bereft Of Wet And Of Wildness? Let Them Be Left, O Let Them Be Left, Wildness And Wet: Long Live The Weeds And The Wilderness Yet.

That Piecemeal Peace Is Poor Peace. What Pure Peace Allows Alarms Of Wars, The Daunting Wars, The Death Of It?

And For All This, Nature Is Never Spent; There Lives The Dearest Freshness Deep Down Things; And Though The Last Lights Off The Black West Went Oh, Morning, At The Brown Brink Eastward, Springs— Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.

O The Mind, Mind Has Mountains; Cliffs Of Fall Frightful, Sheer, No-man-fathomed.

I Do Not Think I Have Ever Seen Anything More Beautiful Than The Bluebell I Have Been Looking At. I Know The Beauty Of Our Lord By It.