A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will.

The Pleasant Books, That Silently Among Our Household Treasures Take Familiar Places, And Are To Us As If A Living Tongue Spake From The Printed Leaves Or Pictured Faces!

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh The Cold And Cruel Winter!

Tell Me Not, In Mournful Numbers, Life Is But An Empty Dream!

There's Nothing Fair Nor Beautiful, But Takes Something From Thee, That Makes It Beautiful.