It Kills Me To Be

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

I Do Not Think I Have Ever Seen Anything More Beautiful Than The Bluebell I Have Been Looking At. I Know The Beauty Of Our Lord By It.

And The Headbonny Ash That Sits Over The Burn. What Would The World Be, Once Bereft Of Wet And Of Wildness? Let Them Be Left, O Let Them Be Left, Wildness And Wet: Long Live The Weeds And The Wilderness Yet.

To Lift Up The Hands In Prayer Gives God Glory, But A Man With A Dungfork In His Hand, A Woman With A Slop Pail, Give Him Glory, Too. God Is So Great That All Things Give Him Glory If You Mean That They Should.

What Is All This Juice And All This Joy?