The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.
The victory of endurance born.
Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.