Flowers Spring Up Unsown And Die Ungathered.

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.

I Gazed Upon The Glorious Sky And The Green Mountains Round, And Thought That When I Came To Lie At Rest Within The Ground, 'twere Pleasant, That In Flowery June When Brooks Send Up A Cheerful Tune, And Groves A Joyous Sound, The Sexton's Hand, My Grave To Make, The Rich, Green Mountain-turf Should Break.

The Birch-bark Canoe Of The Savage Seems To Me One Of The Most Beautiful And Perfect Things Of The Kind Constructed By Human Art.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.