Wildness Is My Suiting Scene.

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

So Dull And Dark Are The November Days. The Lazy Mist High Up The Evening Curled, And Now The Morn Quite Hides In Smoke And Haze; The Place We Occupy Seems All The World.

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

Love Lives With Nature, Not With Lust. Go Find Her In The Flowers.

In Mid-wood Silence, Thus, How Sweet To Be; Where All The Noises, That On Peace Intrude, Come From The Chittering Cricket, Bird, And Bee, Whose Songs Have Charms To Sweeten Solitude.