The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of The Morn.

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

No Verse Which Is Unmusical Or Obscure Can Be Regarded As Poetry Whatever Other Qualities It May Possess.

Doth Nature Draw Me, 'tis Because, Unto My Seeming, There Doth Lurk A Lawlessness About Her Laws, More Mood Than Purpose In Her Work.

Tis True Among Fields And Woods I Sing, Aloof From Cities--that My Poor Strains Were Born, Like The Simple Flowers You Bring, In English Meadows And English Lanes.