Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs--and that is all.

Few things are more aggravating than to be forgiven when one has done no wrong.

Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose From out night's gray and cloudy sheath; Softly and still it grows and grows, Petal by petal, leaf by leaf.

Ah, the pretty whisperers! It was very well When the leaves were thick and green, awhile ago-- Leaves are secret-keepers; but since the last leaf fell There is nothing hidden from the eyes below.

The sobbing wind is fierce and strong; its cry is like a human wail.

As we meet and touch, each day, The many travelers on our way, Let every such brief contact be A glorious, helpful minister.

...this pause of rest, This morning hush before the sun.