This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in. A minute to smile and an hour to weep in. A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the...

Beyond the YearsI the years the answer lies,Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears.Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears,And carping Sorrow pines and dies— Beyond the years.IIBeyond the...