A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.

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

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon, No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, . . . . . . No road, no street, no t' other side the way, . . . . . . No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.

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