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

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

He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.

Wildness is my suiting scene.

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.

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.