Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
May books and nature be their early joy!
The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.