“O sweet September, they first breezes bring the dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter, the cool fresh air whence health and vigor spring and promise of exceeding joy hereafter.”
“But leave me to my beer! Gold is dross, love is loss, so if I gulp my sorrows down, or see them drown in foamy draughts of old nut-brown, then I do wear the crown, without the cross!”
“And he sang every night as he went to bed. 'Let us be happy down here below: the living should live, though the dead be dead.' Said the jolly old pedagogue long ago.”
