Such A Blush In The Midst Of

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty Thieves, And The Book Of Nature Getteth Short Of Leaves.

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

To Attempt To Advise Conceited People Is Like Whistling Against The Wind.