I Ne'er Was Struck Before That Hour

Burning Hot Is The Ground, Liquid Gold Is The Air; Whoever Looks Round Sees Eternity There.

Summer Is A Prodigal Of Joy. The Grass Swarms With Delighted Insects As I Pass, And Crowds Of Grasshoppers At Every Stride Jump Out All Ways With Happiness Their Guide; And From My Brushing Feet Moths Flit Away In Safer Places To Pursue Their Play. In Crowds They Start. I Marvel, Well I May, To See Such Worlds Of Insects In The Way, And More To See Each Thing, However Small, Sharing Joy's Bounty That Belongs To All. And Here I Gather, By The World Forgot, Harvests Of Comfort From Their Happy Mood, Feeling God's Blessing Dwells In Every Spot And Nothing Lives But Owes Him Gratitude.

Ah, Words Are Poor Receipts For What Time Hath Stole Away.

The Best Way To Avoid A Bad Action Is By Doing A Good One, For There Is No Difficulty In The World Like That Of Trying To Do Nothing.

Now Musing O'er The Changing Scene Farmers Behind The Tavern Screen Collect; With Elbows Idly Press'd On Hob, Reclines The Corner's Guest, Reading The News To Mark Again The Bankrupt Lists Or Price Of Grain. Puffing The While His Red-tipt Pipe He Dreams O'er Troubles Nearly Ripe, Yet, Winter's Leisure To Regale, Hopes Better Times, And Sips His Ale.