O month when they who love must love and wed.

O month when they who love must love and wed.

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.

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

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

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