Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.