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.
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God.
How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree
The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
I am the self-consumer of my woes.