Nothing can be so bad as to be displeased with one's self.

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.

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; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.

But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

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