If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

Thou Art A Dreaming Thing, A Fever Of Thyself.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

To Silence Gossip, Don't Repeat It.