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

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

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

All the great blessings of my life are present in my thoughts today

O men, grown sick with toil and care, Leave for awhile the crowded mart; O women, sinking with despair, Weary of limb and faint of heart, Forget your years to-day and come As children back to childhood's house.

One sweetly solemn thought, comes to me o'er and o'er; I am nearer home today, than I ever have been before.

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