Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

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!

Half of the failures in life come from pulling one's horse when he is leaping.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

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

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

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