November's Sky Is Chill And Drear, November's

Ridicule, The Weapon Of All Others Most Feared By Enthusiasts Of Every Description, And Which From Its Predominance Over Such Minds, Often Checks What Is Absurd, And Fully As Often Smothers That Which Is Noble.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?

Here Eglantine Embalm'd The Air, Hawthorne And Hazel Mingled There; The Primrose Pale, And Violet Flower, Found In Each Cliff A Narrow Bower; Fox-glove And Nightshade, Side By Side, Emblems Of Punishment And Pride, Group'd Their Dark Hues With Every Stain The Weather-beaten Crags Retain.

We Do That In Our Zeal Our Calmer Moment Would Be Afraid To Answer.

The Summer Dawn's Reflected Hue To Purple Changed Lock Katrine Blue, Mildly And Soft The Western Breeze Just Kiss'd The Lake, Just Stirr'd The Trees, And The Pleased Lake, Like Maiden Coy, Trembled But Dimpled Not For Joy.