I found the poems in the fields And only wrote them down
If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.
My fears are agitated to an extreme degree and the dread of death involves me in a stupor of chilling indisposition.
Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God.
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.