Wildness Is My Suiting Scene.

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

The Wild Swan Hurries Hight And Noises Loud With White Neck Peering To The Evening Clowd. The Weary Rooks To Distant Woods Are Gone. With Lengths Of Tail The Magpie Winnows On To Neighbouring Tree, And Leaves The Distant Crow While Small Birds Nestle In The Edge Below.

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

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.

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