These hoards of wealth you can unlock at will.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

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

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

Let Nature be your teacher

Faith is a passionate intuition.