I live here among the ignorant like a lost man in fact like one whom the rest seems careless of having anything to do with — they hardly dare talk in my company for fear I shoud mention them in my writings & I find more pleasure in wandering the fields then in mixing among my silent neighbours who are insensible of everything but toiling & talking of it & that to no purpose.

Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

I long for scenes where man has never trod; A place where woman never smil'd or wept; There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: Untroubling and untroubled where I lie; The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

I found the poems in the fields And only wrote them down

I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.

My fears are agitated to an extreme degree and the dread of death involves me in a stupor of chilling indisposition.