The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing

Autumn's The Mellow Time.

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.

Soul's Castle Fell At One Blast Of Temptation, But Many A Worm Had Pierced The Foundation.

If Any Foes Of Mine Are There, I Pardon Every One: I Hope That Man And Womankind Will Do The Same By Me.

Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?