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

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.

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.

Books were put out, and 'had a run,' / Like coinage from the mint; / But which could fill the place of one, / That one they wouldn't print?

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

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