He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not

Tis True Among Fields And Woods I Sing, Aloof From Cities--that My Poor Strains Were Born, Like The Simple Flowers You Bring, In English Meadows And English Lanes.

Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day By Day Dead Or Living, Hard To Say.

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

Is Life Worth Living? Yes, So Long As There Is Wrong To Right. So Long As Faith With Freedom Reigns And Loyal Hope Survives, And Gracious Charity Remains To Leaven Lowly Lives; While There Is Only One Untrodden Tract For Intellect Or Will, And Men Are Free To Think And Act, Life Is Worth Living Still.

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