But Evil Is Wrought By Want Of

No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Birds - November!

What Joy Have I In June's Return? My Feet Are Parched-my Eyeballs Burn, I Scent No Flowery Gust; But Faint The Flagging Zephyr Springs, With Dry Macadam On Its Wings, And Turns Me 'dust To Dust.'

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

I Resolved That, Like The Sun, As Long As My Day Lasted, I Would Look On The Bright Side Of Everything.

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!