"What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree."

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"When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multiple OF golden chalices to humming birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky."

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"The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear."

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"Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen."

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"Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note; Braggarts and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat."

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"Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest."

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"Weep not that the world changes--did it keep A stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep."

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"No trumpet-blast profound The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born; No bloody streamlet stained Earth's silver rivers on the sacred morn."