Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day

The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

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.

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.

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