In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander’s breath That love belongs to sin and death.
I found the poems in the fields,And only wrote them down.
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.
Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes
Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rudeAnd fled to the silence of sweet solitude.
Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
O I never thought that joys would run away from boys,Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such summer joys;But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
A maidenhead, the virgin’s troubleIs well-compare-d to a bubbleon a navigable riverSoon ’tis touched t’is gone forever
O lead me onward to the loneliest shade, The darkest place that quiet ever made, Where kingcups grow most beauteous to behold And shut up green and open into gold.
I wish I was what I have beenAnd what I was could beAs when I roved in shadows greenAnd loved my willow treeTo gaze upon the starry skyAnd higher fancies buildAnd make in solitary joyLoves temple in the field
Yet simple souls, their faith it knows no stint:Things least to be believed are most preferred.All counterfeits, as from truth’s sacred mint,Are readily believed if once put down in print
I hate the very noise of troublous man Who did and does me all the harm he can. Free from the world I would a prisoner be And my own shadow all my company.
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
O take me from the busy crowd,I cannot bear the noise!For Nature’s voice is never loud;I seek for quiet joys.The book I love is everywhere,And not in idle words;The book I love is known to all,And better lore affords.
There is a charm in Solitude that cheersA feeling that the world knows nothing ofA green delight the wounded mind endearsAfter the hustling world is broken off
If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.
He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well.