We Frolic While 'tis May.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words That Burn.

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife Their Sober Wishes Never Learn'd To Stray; Along The Cool Sequester'd Vale Of Life They Kept The Noiseless Tenor Of Their Way.