See how the pines push off their last year’s leaves,
And stretch beyond them with exultant bound:
The grass and flowers, with living power, o’ergrow
Their last year’s remnants on the greening ground.
Wilt thou, then, all thy wintry feelings keep,
The old dead routine of the book-writ lore,
Nor deem that God can teach, by one bright hour,
What life hath never taught to thee before?
Cease, cease to think, and be content to be;
Swing safe at anchor in fair Nature’s bay;