Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
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.
O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
There are three things which the public will always clamour for, sooner or later; namely: novelty, novelty, novelty.