January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow.

The death of my mother permanently affects my happiness, more even than I should have anticipated, though I always knew that I must feel the separation at first as a severe wrench. But I did not apprehend, during her life, to what a degree she prevented me from feeling heart-solitude.

Puns are often unacceptable to the feelings; they come like a spoonful of ice-cream in the midst of a comfortable smoking-hot steak, or as a peppery morsel when your palate was in expectation of a mild pudding.

January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow.

Dull November brings the blast, Then the leaves are whirling fast.

avarice is especially, I suppose, a disease of the imagination.

April brings the primrose sweet, / Scatters daisies at our feet.