A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfo…

Maybe that's what life is... a wink of the eye and winking stars.

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As Spring revives the year, And hails us with the cuckoo's song, To show that she is here;