Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude..

And what is Life? - An hour-glass on the run.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;... There to abide with my Creator, God..

The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life..

I ne'er was struck before that hour with love so sudden and so sweet. Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower and stole my heart away complete.

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..

Love lives with Nature, not with lust. Go find her in the flowers..

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 hap….

I never saw so sweet a face. As that I stood before. My heart has left it dwelling place ... and can return no more..

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful ….

I found the poems in the fields And only wrote them down.

Wildness is my suiting scene..

I long for scenes where man has never trod; A place where woman never smil'd or wept; There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhoo….

And fairy month of waking mirth From whom our joys ensue Thou early gladder of the earth Thrice welcome here anew With thee the bud unfolds t….

Now summer is in flower and natures hum Is never silent round her sultry bloom Insects as small as dust are never done Wi' glittering dance and….

Still, I have been no one's enemy but my own. My easy nature, either in drinking or anything else, was always ready to submit to persuasions of profl….

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck o….

I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc..

If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs..

Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away..

Language has not the power to speak what love indites: The soul lies buried in the ink that writes..