And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury - Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.

What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.

Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!

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

Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!

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

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes, Are something more than fictions.