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

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

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

Sometimes, I think the things we see are shadows of the things to be; that what we plan we build

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

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

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.