The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.
There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Winning isn’t everything, but it beats anything in second place.
To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.