Solitude Is Very Sad, Too

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

One Who Can See Without Seeming To See-- That's An Observer As Good As Three.

Ring-ting! I Wish I Were A Primrose, A Bright Yellow Primrose Blowing In The Spring! The Stooping Boughs Above Me, The Wandering Bee To Love Me, The Fern And Moss To Creep Across, And The Elm-tree For Our King!

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

Scarcely A Tear To Shed; Hardly A Word To Say; The End Of A Summer's Day; Sweet Love Is Dead.