Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?