The voice of one who goes before to make The paths of June more beautiful, is thine Sweet May! - Helen Hunt Jackson

The goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown:
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbines twining.

There is nothing so skilful in its own defence as imperious pride. […] Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on till death.