Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest

The Gay Will Laugh When Thou Art Gone, The Solemn Brood Of Care Plod On, And Each One As Before Will Chase His Favourite Phantom; Yet All These Shall Leave Their Mirth And Their Employments, And Shall Come, And Make Their Bed With Thee.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

War, Like All Other Situations Of Danger And Of Change, Calls Forth The Exertion Of Admirable Intellectual Qualities And Great Virtues, And It Is Only By Dwelling On These, And Keeping Out Of Sight The Sufferings And Sorrows, And All The Crimes And Evils That Follow In Its Train, That It Has Its Glory In The Eyes Of Men.

The Breath Of Springtime At This Twilight Hour Comes Through The Gathering Glooms, And Bears The Stolen Sweets Of Many A Flower Into My Silent Rooms.

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.