Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where

My Virgin Sense Of Sound Was Steeped In The Music Of Young Streams; And Roses Through The Casement Peeped, And Scented All My Dreams.

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

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

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.

So, Timely You Came, And Well You Chose, You Came When Most Needed, My Winter Rose. From The Snow I Pluck You, And Fondly Press Your Leaves 'twixt The Leaves Of My Leaflessness.