To Happy Folkall Heaviest Words No More

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement; A Sanded Floor And Whitewashed Walls And The Green Trees, And Flowery Meads, And Living Waters Outside; Or A Grimy Palace Amid The Same With A Regiment Of Housemaids Always Working To Smear The Dirt Together So That It May Be Unnoticed; Which, Think You, Is The Most Refined, The Most Fit For A Gentleman Of Those Two Dwellings?

Forgetfulness Of Grief I Yet May Gain;in Some Wise May Come Ending To My Pain;it May Be Yet The Gods Will Have Me Glad!yet, Love, I Would That Thee And Pain I Had!

In Prison Wearily, Drearily, Half The Day Long, Flap The Great Banners High Over The Stone; Strangely And Eerily Sounds The Wind's Song, Bending The Banner-poles. While, All Alone, Watching The Loophole's Spark, Lie I, With Life All Dark, Feet Tethered, Hands Fettered Fast To The Stone, The Grim Walls, Square Lettered With Prisoned Men's Groan. Still Strain The Banner-poles Through The Wind's Song, Westward The Banner Rolls Over My Wrong.

If We Feel The Least Degradation In Being Amorous, Or Merry Or Hungry, Or Sleepy, We Are So Far Bad Animals & Miserable Men.

Large Or Small, [the Garden] Should Be Orderly And Rich. It Should Be Well Fenced From The Outside World. It Should By No Means Imitate Either The Willfulness Or The Wildness Of Nature, But Should Look Like A Thing Never To Be Seen Except Near The House. It Should, In Fact, Look Like Part Of The House.