Albeit, as for me, give me
“A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned.”
Emerson voices my own feeling when he sings:—
“A woodland walk,
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds;”
for,
“What friend to friend cannot convey,