Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase Are fruits of innocence and blessedness. - William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.

When April winds
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up,
Opened in airs of June her multitude
Of golden chalices to humming-birds
And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.