He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not

Thought, Stumbling, Plods Past Fallen Temples, Vanished Gods, Altars Unincensed, Fanes Undecked, Eternal Systems Flown Or Wrecked; Through Trackless Centuries That Grant To The Poor Trudge Refreshment Scant, Age After Age, Pants On To Find A Melting Mirage Of The Mind.

From Sunny Woof And Cloudy Weft Fell Rain In Sheets; So, To Myself I Hummed These Hazard Rhymes, And Left The Learned Volume On The Shelf.

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.

In My Song You Catch At Times Note Sweeter Far Than Mine, And In The Tangle Of My Rhymes Can Scent The Eglantine.

There Is No Gardening Without Humility. Nature Is Constantly Sending Even Its Oldest Scholars To The Bottom Of The Class For Some Egregious Blunder.