The Present Is The Funeral Of The

Summer Is A Prodigal Of Joy. The Grass Swarms With Delighted Insects As I Pass, And Crowds Of Grasshoppers At Every Stride Jump Out All Ways With Happiness Their Guide; And From My Brushing Feet Moths Flit Away In Safer Places To Pursue Their Play. In Crowds They Start. I Marvel, Well I May, To See Such Worlds Of Insects In The Way, And More To See Each Thing, However Small, Sharing Joy's Bounty That Belongs To All. And Here I Gather, By The World Forgot, Harvests Of Comfort From Their Happy Mood, Feeling God's Blessing Dwells In Every Spot And Nothing Lives But Owes Him Gratitude.

Yet Simple Souls, Their Faith It Knows No Stint: Things Least To Be Believed Are Most Preferred. All Counterfeits, As From Truth's Sacred Mint, Are Readily Believed If Once Put Down In Print

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

I Long For Scenes Where Man Has Never Trod; A Place Where Woman Never Smil'd Or Wept; There To Abide With My Creator, God, And Sleep As I In Childhood Sweetly Slept: Untroubling And Untroubled Where I Lie; The Grass Below--above The Vaulted Sky.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.