The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery

Is Not Thy Home Among The Flowers?

Stand Here By My Side And Turn, I Pray, On The Lake Below Thy Gentle Eyes; The Clouds Hang Over It, Heavy And Gray, And Dark And Silent The Water Lies; And Out Of That Frozen Mist The Snow In Wavering Flakes Begins To Flow; Flake After Flake, They Sink In The Dark And Silent Lake.

The Sweet Calm Sunshine Of October, Now Warms The Low Spot; Upon Its Grassy Mold The Pur0ple Oak-leaf Falls; The Birchen Bough Drops Its Bright Spoil Like Arrow-heads Of Gold.

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!

Much Has Seen Said Of The Wisdom Of Old Age. Old Age Is Wise, I Grant, For Itself, But Not Wise For The Community. It Is Wise In Declining New Enterprises, For It Has Not The Power Nor The Time To Execute Them; Wise In Shrinking From Difficulty, For It Has Not The Strength To Overcome It; Wise In Avoiding Danger, For It Lacks The Faculty Of Ready And Swift Action, By Which Dangers Are Parried And Converted Into Advantages. But This Is Not Wisdom For Mankind At Large, By Whom New Enterprises Must Be Undertaken, Dangers Met, And Difficulties Surmounted.