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.

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

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

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

I resolved that, like the sun, as long as my day lasted, I would look on the bright side of everything.

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