How Oft A Summer Shower

For Nature Is Love, And Finds Haunts For True Love, Where Nothing Can Hear Or Intrude; It Hides From The Eagle And Joins With The Dove, In Beautiful Green Solitude.

I Am Gennerally Understood Tho I Do Not Use That Awkward Squad Of Pointings Called Commas Colons Semicolons Etc.

Language Has Not The Power To Speak What Love Indites: The Soul Lies Buried In The Ink That Writes.

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

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.