Language has not the power to speak what love indites The soul lies buried in the Ink that writes
I found the poems in the fields, And only wrote them down.
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.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
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.
