Bears flowers of native poesy;
Who walks nor skips the pasture brook
In scorn, but by the drinking horse
Leans o’er its little brig to look
How far the sallows lean across.
There is no poet, I fancy, in whose work the phrase, “I love,” recurs oftener. His poetry is largely a list of the things he loves:
I love at early morn, from new-mown swath
To see the startled frog his route pursue;
To mark while, leaping o’er the dripping path,
His bright sides scatter dew,