Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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!
The best of friends fall out, and so his teeth had done some years ago.
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.