Summer is a prodigal of joy. The grass Swarms with delighted insects as I pass, And crowds of grasshoppers at every stride Jump out all ways with happiness their guide; And from my brushing feet moths flit away In safer places to pursue their play. In crowds they start. I marvel, well I may, To see such worlds of insects in the way, And more to see each thing, however small, Sharing joy's bounty that belongs to all. And here I gather, by the world forgot, Harvests of comfort from their happy mood, Feeling God's blessing dwells in every spot And nothing lives but owes him gratitude.

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.

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

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

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

If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.