Into The Nothingness Of Scorn And Noise,

The Wild Swan Hurries Hight And Noises Loud With White Neck Peering To The Evening Clowd. The Weary Rooks To Distant Woods Are Gone. With Lengths Of Tail The Magpie Winnows On To Neighbouring Tree, And Leaves The Distant Crow While Small Birds Nestle In The Edge Below.

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

Now Musing O'er The Changing Scene Farmers Behind The Tavern Screen Collect; With Elbows Idly Press'd On Hob, Reclines The Corner's Guest, Reading The News To Mark Again The Bankrupt Lists Or Price Of Grain. Puffing The While His Red-tipt Pipe He Dreams O'er Troubles Nearly Ripe, Yet, Winter's Leisure To Regale, Hopes Better Times, And Sips His Ale.

Forgive Me If, In Friendship’s Way, I Offer Thee A Wreath Of May.... [n]ourished By The Dews Of Heaven.... So I Have Ivy Placed Between, To Prove That Worth Is Ever Green. The Little Blue Forget-me-not... Spring’s Messenger In Every Spot, Smiling On All—"remember Me!

Loud Is The Summer's Busy Song The Smallest Breeze Can Find A Tongue, While Insects Of Each Tiny Size Grow Teasing With Their Melodies, Till Noon Burns With Its Blistering Breath Around, And Day Lies Still As Death.