Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.
Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
And solitudes gather so heavy and lone,
There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness
The ravishing measures that banish each groan.

Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty,
Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet,
While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty
And scatter the kisses of love at his feet;
'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living
When hands do the brotherly kindness they can,
And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving
To soften and sweeten the nature of man.

Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it,
When souls find a theme for their jubilant song;
There is music, when angels are taught to begin it,
Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong;
There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever,
And mutter no strains of contention or strife,
Neither burden the hours with the pangs of endeavor,
When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.




"THE SONGS THAT MOTHER USED TO SING."