And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.