Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? Good Timber The tree that never had to fight For sun and sky and air and light, But stood out in the open plain And always got its share of rain, Never became a forest king But lived and died a scrubby thing.
Fleeting are its joys and gladness, Though we fain would hold them fast; Nothing lingers save a memory Of the things that now are past.
If our motive be to lighten Other souls oppressed by care, We shall find that our own burdens Are made easier to bear.