Our Faith Triumphant O'er Our Fears.

There Is A Reaper, Whose Name Is Death, And, With His Sickle Keen, He Reaps The Bearded Grain At A Breath, And The Flowers That Grow Between.

Some Feelings Are Quite Untranslatable; No Language Has Yet Been Found For Them. They Gleam Upon Us Beautifully Through The Dim Twilight Of Fancy, And Yet When We Bring Them Close To Us, And Hold Them Up To The Light Of Reason, Lose Their Beauty All At Once, As Glow Worms Which Gleam With Such A Spiritual Light In The Shadows Of Evening, When Brought In Where The Candles Are Lighted, Are Found To Be Only Worms Like So Many Others.

The Life Of Woman Is Full Of Woe, Toiling On And On And On, With Breaking Heart, And Tearful Eyes, The Secret Longings That Arise, Which This World Never Satisfies! Some More, Some Less, But Of The Whole Not One Quite Happy, No, Not One!

And So We Plough Along, As The Fly Said To The Ox.

Stay, Stay At Home, My Heart And Rest; Home-keeping Hearts Are Happiest.