The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager

Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!

Sweet Is The Breath Of Vernal Shower,/ The Bee's Collected Treasure Sweet,/ Sweet Music's Melting Fall, But Sweeter Yet/ The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.