TO NATURE 
How fair, O Nature, are thy looks 
In these thy matron days : 
And with what light a heart thou seem'st 
To tread thy thorny ways. 
Man sees thee joying in thy life, 
So full, so fresh, so free, 
As if thy toil in ages past 
Had nothing been to thee. 
And well may he, beneath thy spell, 
Forget thy inner life, 
The waste and suffering in thy breast, 
And never-ceasing strife. 
Or if so be he needs must think 
Of all the tumult there, 
He knows at least one end it has, 
To make thee grow more fair. 
IX 
