The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

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.

Who longest waits most surely wins.

For April sobs while these are so glad April weeps while these are so gay,- Weeps like a tired child who had, Playing with flowers, lost its way.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.