Desolate—Life is so dreary and desolate—

How many lives we live in one, And how much less than one, in all.

Yea, when mortality dissolves, Shall I not meet thine hour unawed? My house eternal in the heavens Is lighted by the smile of God!

We serve Him most who take the most of His exhaustless love.

My soul is full of whispered song,— My blindness is my sight; The shadows that I feared so long Are full of life and light.

Thirty dayes hath Nouember, Aprill, June and September, February hath xxviii alone, And all the rest haue xxxi.

Father, dear father, come home with me now! The clock in the steeple strikes three; The house is so lonely, the hours are so long For poor weeping mother and me. Yes, we are alone, poor Benny is dead, And gone with the angels of light;