Follow Thou Thy Choice.

Follow Thou Thy Choice.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

I Gazed Upon The Glorious Sky And The Green Mountains Round, And Thought That When I Came To Lie At Rest Within The Ground, 'twere Pleasant, That In Flowery June When Brooks Send Up A Cheerful Tune, And Groves A Joyous Sound, The Sexton's Hand, My Grave To Make, The Rich, Green Mountain-turf Should Break.

Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.