Those Who Plant Trees Plant

I Remember How Beautiful The Merrimac Looked To Me In Childhood, The First True River I Ever Knew; It Opened Upon My Sight And Wound Its Way Through My Heart Like A Dream Realized; Its Harebells, Its Rocks, And Its Rapids, Are Far More Fixed In My Memory Than Anything About The Sea.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.

No One Can Feel More Gratefully The Charm Of Noble Scenery, Or The Refreshment Of Escape Into The Unspoiled Solitudes Of Nature, Than The Laborer At Some Close In-door Employment.

The Soul, Cramped Among The Petty Vexations Of Earth, Needs To Keep Its Windows Constantly Open To The Invigorating Air Of Large And Free Ideas: And What Thought Is So Grand As That Of An Ever-present God, In Whom All That Is Vital In Humanity Breathes And Grows?

The Whole World Of Thought Lay Unexplored Before Me, - A World Of Which I Had Already Caught Large And Tempting Glimpses.