Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies

Pluck Not The Wayside Flower; It Is The Traveler's Dower.

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.

The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing Ever.

Politeness Costs Nothing. Nothing, That Is, To Him That Shows It; But If Often Costs The World Very Dear.

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.