Tears Are Summer Showers To

Faded Smiles Oft Linger In The Face, While Grief's First Flakes Fall Silent On The Heart!

Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day By Day Dead Or Living, Hard To Say.

There Is No Gardening Without Humility. Nature Is Constantly Sending Even Its Oldest Scholars To The Bottom Of The Class For Some Egregious Blunder.

Tis True Among Fields And Woods I Sing, Aloof From Cities--that My Poor Strains Were Born, Like The Simple Flowers You Bring, In English Meadows And English Lanes.

Doth Nature Draw Me, 'tis Because, Unto My Seeming, There Doth Lurk A Lawlessness About Her Laws, More Mood Than Purpose In Her Work.