Apothegms Form A Short Cut To Much

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

No Shade, No Shine, No Butterflies, No Bees, No Fruits, No Flowers, No Leaves, No Birds - November!

How Bravely Autumn Paints Upon The Sky The Gorgeous Fame Of Summer Which Is Fled!

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

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