• Fair is each budding thing the garden shows,
      From spring’s frail crocus to the latest bloom
    Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows
      Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume
    From all the tangled blossoms tossing there;—
    Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any farther fare.

    The morning-glories ripple o’er the hedge
      And...

  • Eden is that old-fashioned House

    We dwell in every day

    Without suspecting our abode

    Until we drive away.


    How fair on looking back, the Day

    We sauntered from the Door —

    Unconscious our returning,

    But discover it no more.

  • Like Some Old fashioned Miracle

    When Summertime is done —

    Seems Summer's Recollection

    And the Affairs of June


    As infinite Tradition

    As Cinderella's Bays —

    Or Little John — of Lincoln Green —

    Or Blue Beard's Galleries —


    Her Bees have a fictitious Hum —

    Her...