Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.

Though My Verse But Roam The Air And Murmur In The Trees, You May Discern A Purpose There, As In Music Of The Bees.

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.

A Garden That One Makes Oneself Becomes Associated With One’s Personal History And That Of One’s Friends, Interwoven With One’s Tastes, Preferences And Character And Constitutes A Sort Of Unwritten Autobiography.

When Held Up To The Window Pane, What Fixed My Baby Stare? The Glory Of The Glittering Rain, And Newness Everywhere.