Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou

One Who Can See Without Seeming To See-- That's An Observer As Good As Three.

Writing Is Learning To Say Nothing, More Cleverly Every Day.

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods, And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt, And Night By Night The Monitory Blast Wails In The Key-hole, Telling How It Pass'd O'er Empty Fields, Or Upland Solitudes, Or Grim Wide Wave; And Now The Power Is Felt Of Melancholy, Tenderer In Its Moods Than Any Joy Indulgent Summer Dealt.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.