For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.