Thought Would Destroy Their Paradise.

The Attic Warbler Pours Her Throat, Responsive To The Cuckoo's Note, The Untaught Harmony Of Spring.

In The Evening, I Walked Alone Down To The Lake By The Side Of Crow Park After Sunset And Saw The Solemn Coloring Of Night Draw On, The Last Gleam Of Sunshine Fading Away On The Hilltops, The Seep Serene Of The Asters, And The Long Shadows Of The Mountains Thrown Across Them, Till They Nearly Touched The Hithermost Shore. At Distance Hear The Murmur Of Many Waterfalls Not Audible In The Day-time. Wished For The Moon, But She Was Dark To Me And Silent, Hid In Her Vacant Interlunar Cave.

As To Posterity, I May Ask What Has It Ever Done To Oblige Me?

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!

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