O Bed! O Bed! Delicious

The Year's In Wane; There Is Nothing Adorning; The Night Has No Eve, And The Day Has No Morning; Cold Winter Gives Warning!

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

What Is Mind? No Matter. What Is Matter? Never Mind. What Is The Soul? It Is Immaterial.

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.

Frost Is The Greatest Artist In Our Clime - He Paints In Nature And Describes In Rime.