The Year's In Wane; There Is Nothing

The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence, For No Lonely Bird Would Sing Into His Hollow Ear From Woods Forlorn, Nor Lowly Hedge Nor Solitary Thorn;- Shaking His Languid Locks All Dewy Bright With Tangled Gossamer That Fell By Night, Pearling His Coronet Of Golden Corn.

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

For My Part, Getting Up Seems Not So Easy By Half As Lying.

Frost Is The Greatest Artist In Our Clime - He Paints In Nature And Describes In Rime.