My pleasing stream


And here the Cowboy lov'd to sit
And  plate his rushy thongs
And dabble in the fancied pit
And chase the Minnow throngs
And when thou didst thy horses tend
Or drive the ploughmans team
Thy mind did natturally bend
Towards my pleasing stream

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Image ‘River Bend’ by #CarryAkroyd

Will bloom again


The open flower the loaded bough
The fields of spindling grain
Were blooming then the same as now
& so will bloom again
When with the past my being dies
Still summer suns shall shine
& other eyes shall see them rise
When death has darkened mine

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Harmless pleasures


My sundays harmless pleasures were forsook

Nor turnd my rambles to the pasture brook
Were in my youth at ‘Eastwells’ fountain side
Which winters never froze nor summer dryd
Young men & maidens usd to talk & play
In the cool shadows of its willows grey
Drinking loves healths in totts of sugard drink
On the soft swellings of its rushy brink

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Meadow river rill


The scene begins to look divine

We'll by the river walk
Her arm already seems in mine
& fancy hears her talk
A vision this of early love
The meadow river rill
Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove
Are in my memory still

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Green light of trees


I lovd the dear haunts of the sweet solitudes
That round its lome walls in the circle do lye
Were no living thing all the season intrudes
But a bird or a bee humming wearisome bye
& Ive hunted for spots by the brook & have found
The lonliest existing an hour to abide
With nought but the green light of trees flitting round
& the shadow that seemed stretchd asleep by my side

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Image by my friend #RachelBurch

White Easter of the year


I
t is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring--the dress
White Easter of the year in bud
That makes the winter Spring
The frost & snow his posies bring
Natures white spurts of the spring

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Nakedness I love


I love thee nature in my inmost heart
Go where I will thy truth seems from above
Go where I will thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven—e'en these fens where wood nor grove
Are seen—their very nakedness I love
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women—like the dove
I mourn her abscence—fate that would deter
My hate for all things—strengthens love for her

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