It Is Well For A Man To

Can I View Thee Panting, Lying On Thy Stomach, Without Sighing; Can I Unmoved See Thee Dying On A Log Expiring Frog!

It Was The Beginning Of A Day In June; The Deep Blue Sky Unsullied By A Cloud, And Teeming With Brilliant Light. The Streets Were, As Yet, Nearly Free From Passengers, The Houses And Shops Were Closed, And The Healthy Air Of Morning Fell Like Breath From Angels, On The Sleeping Town.

The Wide Stare Stared Itself Out For One While; The Sun Went Down In A Red, Green, Golden Glory; The Stars Came Out In The Heavens, And The Fire-flies Mimicked Them In The Lower Air, As Men May Feebly Imitate The Goodness Of A Better Order Of Beings; The Long Dusty Roads And The Interminable Plains Were In Repose-and So Deep A Hush Was On The Sea, That It Scarcely Whispered Of The Time When It Shall Give Up Its Dead.

This Was My Only And My Constant Comfort. When I Think Of It, The Picture Always Rises In My Mind, Of A Summer Evening, The Boys At Play In The Churchyard, And I Sitting On My Bed, Reading As If For Life.

It Is A Most Miserable Thing To Feel Ashamed Of Home.