Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow,

Tis Like The Birthday Of The World, When Earth Was Born In Bloom; The Light Is Made Of Many Dyes, The Air Is All Perfume: There's Crimson Buds, And White And Blue, The Very Rainbow Showers Have Turned To Blossoms Where They Fell, And Sown The Earth With Flowers.

And Ye, Who Have Met With Adversity's Blast, And Been Bow'd To The Earth By Its Fury; To Whom The Twelve Months, That Have Recently Pass'd Were As Harsh As A Prejudiced Jury - Still, Fill To The Future! And Join In Our Chime, The Regrets Of Remembrance To Cozen, And Having Obtained A New Trial Of Time, Shout In Hopes Of A Kindlier Dozen.

Some Dreams We Have Are Nothing Else But Dreams, Unnatural And Full Of Contradictions; Yet Others Of Our Most Romantic Schemes, Are Something More Than Fictions.

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

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.