" If I could put my woods in song, 



And tell what 's there enjoyed, 

 All men would to my Garden throng, 



And leave the cities void. 

 In my plot no tulips Mow ; 



Snow-loving pines and oaks instead; 

 And rank the savage maples grow. 



From Spring' s first flush to Autumn red. 

 My Garden is a forest ledge. 



Which older forests bound." 



" Wings of what wind the Lichen bore, 

 Wafting the puny seeds of power, 

 Which, lodged in rock, the rock abrade?". 



