Sweet Are The Little Brooks

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

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

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

How Bless'd The Heart That Has A Friend. A Sympathizing Ear To Lend.

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.