No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
We watch'd her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.
Frost is the greatest artist in our clime - he paints in nature and describes in rime.
How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.
O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.