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.
Bells are musics laughter.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.