The Trivial Round, The Common Task,would Furnish

Sprinkled Along The Waste Of Years Full Many A Soft Green Isle Appears: Pause Where We May Upon The Desert Road, Some Shelter Is In Sight, Some Sacred Safe Abode.

Soft As Memnon's Harp At Morning, To The Inward Ear Devout, Touched By Light, With Heavenly Warning Your Transporting Chords Ring Out. Every Leaf In Every Nook, Every Wave In Every Brook, Chanting With A Solemn Voice Minds Us Of Our Better Choice.

Love Masters Agony; The Soul That Seemed Forsaken Feels Her Present God Again And In Her Father's Arms Contented Dies Away.

When You Find Yourself Overpowered, As It Were, By Melancholy, The Best Way Is To Go Out And Do Something.

Time's Waters Will Not Ebb Nor Stay.