Fuss is the froth of business.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words.
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.
She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!