Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?
Who longest waits most surely wins.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.
Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.
I shall be found with 'Indians' engraved on my brain when I am dead. A fire has been kindled within me, which will never go out.