O Spirit of the Summertime! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun; The gilded evenings, calm and late, When merry children homeward run, And peeping stars bid lovers wait. Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadowlands at dewy prime;- Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summertime!

Politeness costs nothing. Nothing, that is, to him that shows it; but if often costs the world very dear.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.

Writing is learning to say nothing, more cleverly every day.

Autumn's the mellow time.

History of Ireland--lawlessness and turbulency, robbery and oppression, hatred and revenge, blind selfishness everywhere--no principle, no heroism. What can be done with it?