The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!