To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

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

She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

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