The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.

Is not thy home among the flowers?

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

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.