If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, This is Spring.

He that would earn the Poet's sacred name, Must write for future as for present ages.

But now I rejoice when, in my winter studio, I can spread out my summer studies and recall through them the beautiful season and places which gave them being. Here the painter feels how small things may suggest the greater - the drop of water, image the firmament.

I become more and more inclined to sink the minister in the man, and abandon my present calling in toto as a profession... to create a living religion in landscape painting.

O Light divine! we need no fuller test That all is ordered well We know enough to trust that all is best Where Love and Wisdom dwell.

Beautiful and rare Aurora, In the heavens thou art their Flora