The people blossoms armies and puts forth The splendid summer of its noiseless might. - Richard Hovey

There is no sorrow like a love denied
Nor any joy like love that has its will.

Shall the iron argue with the smith what it would be?
Or, shall the wrought iron reason with the monger
To whom it would be sold?

I have need of the sky,
I have business with the grass;
I will up and get me away where the hawk is wheeling
Lone and high,
And the slow clouds go by.
I will get me away to the waters that glass
The clouds as they pass.
I will get me away to the woods.