He Who Plants A Tree, Plants A

When I Heard That There Were Artists, I Wished I Could Some Time Be One. If I Could Only Make A Rose Bloom On Paper, I Thought I Should Be Happy! Or If I Could At Last Succeed In Drawing The Outline Of Winter-stripped Boughs As I Saw Them Against The Sky, It Seemed To Me That I Should Be Willing To Spend Years In Trying.

Everything In Nature Has Its Own Intrinsic Charm, As The Work Of Its Creator's Hand; But The Chief Beauty Of The Whole Lies In Its Suggested Relations To Humanity. Things Announce And Wait For Persons. The House Would Not Have Been Thus Beautifully Built And Furnished, Except For An Expected Tenant.

Because Its Myriad Glimmering Plumes Like A Great Army's Stir And Wave; Because Its Golden Billows Blooms, The Poor Man's Barren Walks To Lave: Because Its Sun-shaped Blossoms Show How Souls Receive The Light Of God, And Unto Earth Give Back That Glow I Thank Him For The Goldenrod.

I Defied The Machinery To Make Me Its Slave. Its Incessant Discords Could Not Drown The Music Of My Thoughts If I Would Let Them Fly High Enough.

June Falls Asleep Upon Her Bier Of Flowers; In Vain Are Dewdrops Sprinkled O'er Her, In Vain Would Fond Winds Fan Her Back To Life, Her Hours Are Numbered On The Floral Dial.