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

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

But alas for the dreams that round us play! / For the plans of mortal making! / And alas for the false and fickle day / That looked so fair at waking!

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.

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.

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