Language Has Not The Power

And Fairy Month Of Waking Mirth From Whom Our Joys Ensue Thou Early Gladder Of The Earth Thrice Welcome Here Anew With Thee The Bud Unfolds To Leaves The Grass Greens On The Lea And Flowers Their Tender Boon Receives To Bloom And Smile With Thee.

I Found The Poems In The Fields And Only Wrote Them Down

The Present Is The Funeral Of The Past, And Man The Living Sepulchre Of Life.

Love Lives With Nature, Not With Lust. Go Find Her In The Flowers.

My Fears Are Agitated To An Extreme Degree And The Dread Of Death Involves Me In A Stupor Of Chilling Indisposition.