Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.
The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
Wildness is my suiting scene.
How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree
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.
If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.