Never is true love blind, but rather brings an added light.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?

O that one unguarded moment! / Were it mine to live again, / All the strength of its temptation / Would appeal to me in vain.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.

Come up, April, though the valley, / In your robes of beauty drest, / Come and wake your flowery children / From their wintry beds of rest.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!