My Heart Is Like A Singing Bird.

January Cold And Desolate; February Dripping Wet; March Wind Ranges; April Changes; Birds Sing In Tune To Flowers Of May, And Sunny June Brings Longest Day; In Scorched July The Storm-clouds Fly, Lightning-torn; August Bears Corn, September Fruit; In Rough October Earth Must Disrobe Her; Stars Fall And Shoot In Keen November; And Night Is Long And Cold Is Strong In Bleak December.

Oh That It Were With Me As With The Flower; Blooming On Its Own Tree For Butterfly And Bee Its Summer Morns: That I Might Bloom Mine Hour A Rose In Spite Of Thorns. Oh That My Work Were Done As Birds' That Soar Rejoicing In The Sun: That When My Time Is Run And Daylight Too, I So Might Rest Once More Cool With Refreshing Dew.

One Day In The Country Is Worth A Month In Town

For There Is No Friend Like A Sister In Calm Or Stormy Weather; To Cheer One On The Tedious Way, To Fetch One If One Goes Astray, To Lift One If One Totters Down, To Strengthen Whilst One Stands.

When I Am Dead, My Dearest, Sing No Sad Songs For Me; Plant Thou No Roses At My Head, Nor Shady Cypress Tree: Be The Green Grass Above Me With Showers And Dewdrops Wet: And If Thou Wilt, Remember, And If Thou Wilt, Forget. I Shall Not See The Shadows, I Shall Not Feel The Rain; I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Sing On As If In Pain: And Dreaming Through The Twilight That Doth Not Rise Nor Set, Haply I May Remember, And Haply I May Forget.