If success has thousand painful tales to tell, why would I yield to hear you say failure.

That society must to listen,the real truth;for that,nature has her sequel shifts,thus she makes her sensible experiments around the earth—with her enduring laws to obey while she moves.

Listen O’ westward winds,chime a requiem for my languid thoughts,for they are fruitless by the lone hours,and count not my tears, O’ streams in my stupor;and these low melancholy strings, the soul shall tune!

Ha! no more dirges for the dead summer—and here,the shrills of that unpleasant months over, and new leaves start to shiver;as the winter smiled in her foggy bath!