Solitude Is Very Sad, Too

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

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.

I Have Been An "official" All My Life, Without The Least Turn For It. I Never Could Attain A True Official Manner, Which Is Highly Artificial And Handles Trifles With Ludicrously Disproportionate Gravity.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?

Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou Spirit Of The Summer-time!