Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.

And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.

Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

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!

I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!