Throw Not My Words Away, As Many

If Life Had A Second Edition, How I Would Correct The Proofs.

And Fairy Month Of Waking Mirth From Whom Our Joys Ensue Thou Early Gladder Of The Earth Thrice Welcome Here Anew With Thee The Bud Unfolds To Leaves The Grass Greens On The Lea And Flowers Their Tender Boon Receives To Bloom And Smile With Thee.

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.

While Snow The Window-panes Bedim, The Fire Curls Up A Sunny Charm, Where, Creaming O'er The Pitcher's Rim, The Flowering Ale Is Set To Warm; Mirth, Full Of Joy As Summer Bees, Sits There, Its Pleasures To Impart, And Children, 'tween Their Parent's Knees, Sing Scraps Of Carols O'er By Heart.

For Nature Is Love, And Finds Haunts For True Love, Where Nothing Can Hear Or Intrude; It Hides From The Eagle And Joins With The Dove, In Beautiful Green Solitude.