If Nature Built By Rule And Square,

From Sunny Woof And Cloudy Weft Fell Rain In Sheets; So, To Myself I Hummed These Hazard Rhymes, And Left The Learned Volume On The Shelf.

My Virgin Sense Of Sound Was Steeped In The Music Of Young Streams; And Roses Through The Casement Peeped, And Scented All My Dreams.

Perhaps A Maiden's Bashfulness Is More A Matron's Lesson Than Our Lips Aver.

No Verse Which Is Unmusical Or Obscure Can Be Regarded As Poetry Whatever Other Qualities It May Possess.

Tis True Among Fields And Woods I Sing, Aloof From Cities--that My Poor Strains Were Born, Like The Simple Flowers You Bring, In English Meadows And English Lanes.