To Say The Least, A Town Life

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

Ah, To Build, To Build! That Is The Noblest Of All The Arts.

Well I Know The Secret Places, And The Nests In Hedge And Tree; At What Doors Are Friendly Faces, In What Hearts Are Thoughts Of Me.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.