He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

When was ever honey made with one bee in a hive?

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.