We Meet No Stranger, But Ourself.

The Morns Are Meeker Than They Were, The Nuts Are Getting Brown; The Berry's Cheek Is Plumper, The Rose Is Out Of Town. The Maple Wears A Gayer Scarf, The Field A Scarlet Gown. Lest I Should Be Old-fashioned, I'll Put A Trinket On.

Portraits Are To Daily Faces As An Evening West To A Fine, Pedantic Sunshine In A Satin Vest.

Just A Turn Of The Doorknob, And There Lies Freedom.

I Imagine Therefore I Belong And Am Free.

We Both Believe, And Disbelieve A Hundred Times An Hour, Which Keeps Believing Nimble.