To-morrow is, ah, whose?

The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor.

Autumn to winter, winter into spring, Spring into summer, summer into fall, - So rolls the changing year, and so we change; Motion so swift, we know not that w…

Silence sweeter is than speech.

To-morrow is, ah, whose?

The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done.

It is almost always impossible to evaluate at the time events which you have already experienced, and to understand their meaning with the guidance of their ef…