Burning Hot Is The Ground,

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

To-morrow Comes, True Copy Of To-day,and Empty Shadow Of What Is To Be;yet Cheated Hope On Future Still Depends,and Ends But Only When Our Being Ends.

The Thorn Tree Just Began To Bud And Greening Stained The Sheltering Hedge, An Many A Violet Beside The Wood Peeped Blue Between The Withered Sedge; The Sun Gleamed Warm The Bank Beside, 'twas Pleasant Wandering Out A While Neath Nestling Bush To Lonely Hide, Or Bend A Musings O'er A Stile.

The Best Way To Avoid A Bad Action Is By Doing A Good One, For There Is No Difficulty In The World Like That Of Trying To Do Nothing.

Now Musing O'er The Changing Scene Farmers Behind The Tavern Screen Collect; With Elbows Idly Press'd On Hob, Reclines The Corner's Guest, Reading The News To Mark Again The Bankrupt Lists Or Price Of Grain. Puffing The While His Red-tipt Pipe He Dreams O'er Troubles Nearly Ripe, Yet, Winter's Leisure To Regale, Hopes Better Times, And Sips His Ale.