There's A Double Beauty Whenever

Frost Is The Greatest Artist In Our Clime - He Paints In Nature And Describes In Rime.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?

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

No Blessed Leisure For Love Or Hope, But Only Time For Grief.

For My Part, Getting Up Seems Not So Easy By Half As Lying.