For every hour of pain I have had a day of pleasure. For every moment of worry, an hour of content.

Talk happiness. The world is sad enough without your woe. No path is wholly rough.

There was hell in her eyes! She was worn and jaded Her soul is at war with the life she has led. As I looked on that face so strangely faded I wonder God did not strike me dead.

It is easy to tell the toiler How best he can carry his pack But no one can rate a burden's weight Until it has been on his back

Through strife the slumbering soul awakes, We learn on error's troubled route The truths we could not prize without The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

There is no thing we cannot overcome Say not thy evil instinct is inherited, Or that some trait inborn makes thy whole life forlorn, And calls down punishment that is not merited.

Our lives are songs; God write the words And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, or sweet or sad, As we choose to fashion the measure.