Alas For The Rarity Of

Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much Knowledge.

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

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.

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!