A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining.

Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.

Chill air and wintry winds! My ear has grown familiar with your song; I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long.

The holiest of holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence and apart; The secret anniversaries of the heart.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.