A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

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

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

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

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.