When Eve Upon The First

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

The Lily Is All In White, Like A Saint, And So Is No Mate For Me.

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

Half Of The Failures In Life Come From Pulling One's Horse When He Is Leaping.

And Ye, Who Have Met With Adversity's Blast, And Been Bow'd To The Earth By Its Fury; To Whom The Twelve Months, That Have Recently Pass'd Were As Harsh As A Prejudiced Jury - Still, Fill To The Future! And Join In Our Chime, The Regrets Of Remembrance To Cozen, And Having Obtained A New Trial Of Time, Shout In Hopes Of A Kindlier Dozen.