O Love! For Sylvia Let

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

On Cold December Fragrant Chaplets Blow, And Heavy Harvests Nod Beneath The Snow.

Lo! The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way.

Careless Of Censure, Nor Too Fond Of Fame, Still Pleased To Praise, Yet Not Afraid To Blame, Averse Alike To Flatter Or Offend, Not Free From Faults, Nor Yet Too Vain To Mend.

To Rest, The Cushion And Soft Dean Invite, Who Never Mentions Hell To Ears Polite.