Yesterday's errors let yesterday cover.
Every day is a fresh beginning. Every morn is the world made anew.
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.
The sobbing wind is fierce and strong; its cry is like a human wail.
True love is not selfish. In time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object.
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.