Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

There was no beauty of the wood or fieldBut she its fragrant bosom-secret knew,Nor any but to her would freely yieldSome grace that in her soul took root and grew;Nature to her shone as but now revealed, All rosy-fresh with innocent morning dew,And looked into her heart with dim, sweet eyesThat left it full of sylvan memories.

The path of nature is, indeed, a narrow one, and it is only the immortals that seek it, and, when they find it, do not find themselves cramped therein.

A weed is no more than a flower in disguise.

Good heavens, of what un costly material is our earthly happiness composed... if we only knew it. What incomes have we not had from a flower, and how unfailing are the dividends of the seasons.

Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite And to our age’s drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea.