There is health in thy gray wing, Health of nature's furnishing. Say, thou modern-winged antique, Was thy mistress ever sick?

In each heaving of thy wing Thou dost health and leisure bring, Thou dost waive disease and pain And resume new life again.

Man walks in nature still alone, And knows no one, Discovers no lineament nor feature Of any creature.

Though all the firmament Is o'er me bent, Yet still I miss the grace Of an intelligent and kindred face.

I still must seek the friend Who does with nature blend. Who is the person in her mask, He is the friend I ask;

Who is the expression of her meaning, Who is the uprightness of her leaning, Who is the grown child of her weaning.

We twain would walk together Through every weather, And see this aged Nature Go with a bending stature.

The centre of this world, The face of Nature, The site of human life, Some sure foundation And nucleus of a nation, At least, a private station.

It is the saddest thought of all, that what we are to others, that we are much more to ourselves,—avaricious, mean, irascible, affected,—we are the victims of these faults. If our pride offends our humble neighbor, much more does it offend ourselves, though our lives are never so private and solitary.