There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
Comfort and indolence are cronies.
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!
Bells are musics laughter.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.