The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing

I Have Been An "official" All My Life, Without The Least Turn For It. I Never Could Attain A True Official Manner, Which Is Highly Artificial And Handles Trifles With Ludicrously Disproportionate Gravity.

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

Winds And Waters Keepa Hush More Dead Than Any Sleep.

Solitude Is Very Sad, Too Much Company Twice As Bad.

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.