To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!