Winter Giveth The Fields, And

We Have Not Wings We Cannot Soar; But, We Have Feet To Scale And Climb, By Slow Degrees, By More And More, The Cloudy Summits Of Our Time.

The Setting Of A Great Hope Is Like The Setting Of The Sun. The Brightness Of Our Life Is Gone.

My Book And Heart Shall Never Part.

All Was Silent As Before - All Silent Save The Dripping Rain.

There Is A Beautiful Spirit Breathing Now Its Mellowed Richness On The Clustered Trees, And, From A Beaker Full Of Richest Dyes, Pouring New Glory On The Autumn Woods, And Dipping In Warm Light The Pillared Clouds. Morn On The Mountain, Like A Summer Bird, Lifts Up Her Purple Wing, And In The Vales The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf, And Stirs Up Life Within The Solemn Woods Of Ash Deep-crimsoned, And Silver Beech, And Maple Yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, Like A Faint Old Man, Sits Down By The Wayside A-weary.