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

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

Give plenty of what is given to you, And listen to pity's call. Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

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

Only yield when you must, never "give up the ship," but fight on to the last "with a stiff upper lip!

And though hard be the task, keep a stiff upper lip.