I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

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

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

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

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations