I Am The Self-consumer Of My Woes.

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.

Yet Simple Souls, Their Faith It Knows No Stint: Things Least To Be Believed Are Most Preferred. All Counterfeits, As From Truth's Sacred Mint, Are Readily Believed If Once Put Down In Print

I Found The Poems In The Fields And Only Wrote Them Down

So Dull And Dark Are The November Days. The Lazy Mist High Up The Evening Curled, And Now The Morn Quite Hides In Smoke And Haze; The Place We Occupy Seems All The World.

Summer Is A Prodigal Of Joy. The Grass Swarms With Delighted Insects As I Pass, And Crowds Of Grasshoppers At Every Stride Jump Out All Ways With Happiness Their Guide; And From My Brushing Feet Moths Flit Away In Safer Places To Pursue Their Play. In Crowds They Start. I Marvel, Well I May, To See Such Worlds Of Insects In The Way, And More To See Each Thing, However Small, Sharing Joy's Bounty That Belongs To All. And Here I Gather, By The World Forgot, Harvests Of Comfort From Their Happy Mood, Feeling God's Blessing Dwells In Every Spot And Nothing Lives But Owes Him Gratitude.