Of all the bonny buds that blow
    In bright or cloudy weather,
  Of all the flowers that come and go
    The whole twelve moons together,
  The little purple pansy brings
  Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things.
Heart’s Ease.  M.E.  BRADLEY.

  I send thee pansies while the year is young,
    Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night: 
  Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung
    By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light;

* * * * *

  Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought,
  And for the pansies send me back a thought.
Pansies.  S. DOWDNEY.

  I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
  Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows,
  Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
  With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.
Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act ii.  Sc. 1..  SHAKESPEARE.

  Or o’er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
  That grace my gloomy solitude,
  I teach in winding wreaths to stray
  Fantastic ivy’s gadding spray.
Retirement.  T. WARTON.

AUTUMN.

  The purple asters bloom in crowds
    In every shady nook,
  And ladies’ eardrops deck the banks
    Of many a babbling brook.
Autumn.  E.G.  EASTMAN.

  Graceful, tossing plume of glowing gold,
    Waving lonely on the rocky ledge;
  Leaning seaward, lovely to behold,
    Clinging to the high cliff’s ragged edge.
Seaside Goldenrod.  C. THAXTER.

  The aster greets us as we pass
  With her faint smile.
A Day of Indian Summer.  S.H.P.  WHITMAN.

  Along the river’s summer walk,
    The withered tufts of asters nod;
  And trembles on its arid stalk
    The hoar plume of the golden-rod. 
  And on a ground of sombre fir,
  And azure-studded juniper,
  The silver birch its buds of purple shows,
  And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!
Last Walk in Autumn.  J.G.  WHITTIER.

FOOL.

  The right to be a cussed fool
    Is safe from all devices human,
  It’s common (ez a gin’l rule)
    To every critter born of woman.
The Biglow Papers, Second Series, No. 7.  J.R.  LOWELL.

No creature smarts so little as a fool. Prologue to Satires.  A. POPE.

  The fool hath planted in his memory
  An army of good words; and I do know
  A many fools, that stand in better place,
  Garnished like him, that for a tricksy word
  Defy the matter.
Merchant of Venice, Act iii.  Sc. 5.  SHAKESPEARE.

  A limbo large and broad, since called
  The Paradise of fools, to few unknown.
Paradise Lost, Bk.  III.  MILTON.

Who are a little wise the best fools be. The Triple Fool.  J. DONNE.