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.

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

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.

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung.

True love is not selfish. In time it accustoms itself to anything which secures happiness for its object.

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