#Activities #AmericanWriters #ArtsAndSciences #LandscapesAnd#Pastorals #Nature #SocialCommentaries #TravelsAndJourneys & Country Life Philo#Aphorism Town sophy,
Announced by all the trumpets of t… Arrives the snow, and, driving o’e… Seems nowhere to alight: the white… Hides hills and woods, the river,… And veils the farm—house at the ga…
That you are fair or wise is vain, Or strong, or rich, or generous; You must have also the untaught st… That sheds beauty on the rose. There is a melody born of melody,
Winters know Easily to shed the snow, And the untaught Spring is wise In cowslips and anemones. Nature, hating art and pains,
TO clothe the fiery thought In simple words succeeds, For still the craft of genius is To mask a king in weeds.
LONG I followed happy guides, I could never reach their sides; Their step is forth, and, ere the… Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young,
S. H. With beams December planets dart His cold eye truth and conduct sca… July was in his sunny heart, October in his liberal hand.
Thee, dear friend, a brother sooth… Not with flatteries, but truths, Which tarnish not, but purify To light which dims the morning’s… I have come from the spring—woods,
What care I, so they stand the sa… Things of the heavenly mind,— How long the power to give them fa… Tarries yet behind? Thus far to—day your favors reach,
The living Heaven thy prayers res… House at once and architect, Quarrying man’s rejected hours, Builds therewith eternal towers; Sole and self—commanded works,
They brought me rubies from the mi… And held them to the sun; I said, they are drops of frozen w… From Eden’s vats that run. I looked again,—I thought them he…
HENCEFORTH, please God, fore… The yoke of men’s opinions. I wil… Light—hearted as a bird, and live… I find him in the bottom of my hea… I hear continually his voice there…
Though loath to grieve The evil time’s sole patriot, I cannot leave My honied thought For the priest’s cant,
Who knows this or that? Hark in the wall to the rat: Since the world was, he has gnawed… Of his wisdom, of his fraud What dost thou know?
If I could put my woods in song And tell what’s there enjoyed, All men would to my gardens throng… And leave the cities void. In my plot no tulips blow,—
The rain has spoiled the farmer’s… Shall sorrow put my books away? Thereby are two days lost: Nature shall mind her own affairs, I will attend my proper cares,