A moment's thinking is an hour in words.

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

For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

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

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.

Comfort and indolence are cronies.