How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.