Old Time, who changes all below, To wean men gently for the grave.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was a lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away.

A woman's suffering is never above half known, for the fact of the publicity of her wrongs is counted to her for disgrace.

A child's eyes, those clear wells of undefiled thought—what on earth can be more beautiful? Full of hope, love and curiosity, they meet your own.

Of all the joys that lighten suffering earth, what joy is welcomed like a new born child?

Oh, there at last, life's trials past, / We'll meet our loved ones more, / Whose feet have trod the path to God, -- / Not lost, but gone before.

Until I truly loved, I was alone.