Fuss is the froth of business.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.