Tis done! Dread Winter spreads his latest glooms,— George Thompson Hutchinson
And reigns tremendous o’er the conquered year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!
How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends
His desolate domain. Behold fond man!
See here thy pictured life: pass some few years,
Thy flowering spring, thy summer’s ardent strength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,
And pale concluding winter comes at last.
What is not worth reading more than once is not worth reading at all.— C. J. Weber
The habit and power of reading with reflection, comprehension, and memory all alert and awake, does not come at once to the natural [person] any more than many other sovereign virtues.— John Morley
Now the autumn shudders
In the rose’s root.
Far and wide the ladders
Lean among the fruit.
Now the autumn clambers
Up the trellised frame,
And the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Brighter than the blossom
On the rose’s bough
Sits the wizened, orange,
Bitter berry now;
Beauty never slumbers;— Edna St. Vincent Millay
All is in her name;
But the rose remembers
Some words clink— Mary O’Neill
As ice in a drink.
Some move with grace
A dance, a lace.
Some sound thin:
Wail, scream and pin.
Some words are squat:
A mug, a pot.
dusk I love who know the morning’s light
the night’s darkness, the black and white
of yes and no and all false and true
I have lived with definite so long
with wrong and right, with weak and strong
with how much undefined dusk by you
for I have seen the between hours
when towers grew soft as flowers
and cold stones were stemmed in warmest hue
and I have watched a kind gentle grace
take place behind the coarser face
unloose the many masks old and new
I too felt the purple air’s dissent
from meant purpose and clear intent
nothing certain but a changing view
then let me have time’s dusk perspective— Elizabeth Bartlett
to give the life men think they live
an outer shape and an inner clue
A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, “I will have a camel for lunch today.” And all morning he went about looking for camels. But at noon he saw his shadow again—and he said, “A mouse will do.”— Khalil Gibran