And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

All that tread,The globe are but a handful to the tribes,That slumber in its bosom.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which movesTo that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave...

And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood.

Can anything be imagined more abhorrent to every sentiment of generosity and justice, than the law which arms the rich with the legal right to fix, by assize, the wages of the poor? If this...

Autumn…the year’s last, loveliest smile.”[Indian Summer]