And wrath has left its scar -- that fire of hell
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

The stormy March has come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue. . . .

All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.