Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God.

I never saw so sweet a face. As that I stood before. My heart has left it dwelling place ... and can return no more.

In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be; Where all the noises, that on peace intrude, Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee, Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.

The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.

So dull and dark are the November days. The lazy mist high up the evening curled, And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze; The place we occupy seems all the world.

Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.