Sin We Have Explain'd Away; Unluckily, The

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.

I Always Get Back To The Question, Is It Really Necessary That Men Should Consume So Much Of Their Bodily And Mental Energies In The Machinery Of Civilized Life? The World Seems To Me To Do Much Of Its Toil For That Which Is Not In Any Sense Bread. Again, Does Not The Latent Feeling That Much Of Their Striving Is To No Purpose Tend To Infuse Large Quantities Of Sham Into Men's Work?

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

Four Ducks On A Pond, / A Grass-bank Beyond, / A Blue Sky Of Spring, / White Clouds On The Wing: / What A Little Thing / To Remember For Years - / To Remember With Tears!.

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.