Still Sweet With Blossoms Is The Year's

The Melancholy Days Are Come, The Saddest Of The Year, Of Wailing Winds, And Naked Woods And Meadows Brown And Sear.

It Is Said To Be The Manner Of Hypochondriacs To Change Often Their Physician.

Ah, Why Should We, In The World's Riper Years, Neglect God's Ancient Sanctuaries, And Adore Only Among The Crowd And Under Roofs That Our Frail Hands Have Raised?

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

Come When The Rains Have Glazed The Snow And Clothed The Trees With Ice, While The Slant Sun Of February Pours Into The Bowers A Flood Of Light. Approach! The Incrusted Surface Shall Upbear Thy Steps And The Broad Arching Portals Of The Grove Welcome Thy Entering.