A wounded deer leaps the highest.
How strange that nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude!
In the name of the bee And of the butterfly And of the breeze, amen!
This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me, the simple news that nature told, with tender majesty. Her message is committed, to hands I cannot see; for love of her, sweet countrymen, judge tenderly of me.
Nature, like us is sometimes caught without her diadem.
The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness.
What will the solemn Hemlock- What will the Oak tree say?
To see the Summer Sky Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie— True Poems flee—
Some keep the Sabbath going to church, I keep it staying at home, with a bobolink for a chorister, and an orchard for a dome.
Nature is what we know - Yet have not art to say - So impotent our wisdom is To her simplicity.
A little madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown, Who ponders this tremendous scene-- This whole experiment in green, As if it were his own!
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