Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
Well for the drones of the social hive that there are bees of an industrious turn, willing, for an infinitesimal share of the honey, to undertake the labor of its fabrication.