When Stress of Storm the Lake's broad Bosom mars,
The quiet little Pool reflects the Stars.

I N what are Deserts now, clear Eyes may see
The Fruitful Fields of Days that Are to Be.

T O live as free as Air and yet not lack
The Simpler Comforts, foot it with a Pack.

O F all Fair Scenes the World holds none more good
Than laughing Stream and greenly waving Wood.
Of all Sad Scenes what sadder can there be
Than drought-parched River-bed and flame-charred Tree!