Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last.

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

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

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.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

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.

That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.