It Was Not In The

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!