The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

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