Sin We Have Explain'd Away;

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.

The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing Ever.

Scarcely A Tear To Shed; Hardly A Word To Say; The End Of A Summer's Day; Sweet Love Is Dead.

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.

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.