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

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.

How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree

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

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

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.