Best of all he loved the fall.

The leaves yellow on the cottonwoods.

Leaves floating on the trout streams above the hills.

The high blue windless skies.

Now he will be part of them forever.

— Hemingway

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


In spring of youth it was my lot
 To haunt of the wide world a spot
 The which I could not love the less--
 So lovely was the loneliness
 Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
 And the tall pines that towered around.

But when the Night had thrown her pall
 Upon that spot, as upon all,
 And the mystic wind went by
 Murmuring in melody--
 Then--ah then I would awake
 To the terror of the lone lake.

Yet that terror was not fright,
 But a tremulous delight--
 A feeling not the jewelled mine
 Could teach or bribe me to define--
 Nor Love--although the Love were thine.

Death was in that poisonous wave,
 And in its gulf a fitting grave
 For him who thence could solace bring
 To his lone imagining--
 Whose solitary soul could make
 An Eden of that dim lake.
— Edgar Allan Poe

Passeth the moon with her sickle of light,

Slowly, slowly fadeth she,

Weary of reaping the barren night

And the desolate shuddering sea.

— Yeats, The Island of Statues

“It is the story of the Common Man, of the ordinary men and women who in their countless thousands have trudged through life and then departed from it, leaving little visible trace.”

— Rowland Parker, from “The Common Stream”