Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.

While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.

'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every day increase
Of a treasure.




=The Shoemaker=

"Honor and shame from no condition rise.