Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

For nature then to me was all in all.

A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

The wealthiest man among us is the best