And blessed are the horny hands of toil

Blessed are they that have nothing to say, and who cannot be persuaded to say it

Mine is the horny hand of toil.

Toil is man's allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that's more than either, the grief and sin of idleness

Nothing, I learned, brings you into the present quite like holding hands. The past seemed irrelevant; the future, unnecessary.

All kin' o' smily round the lips, / An' teary round the lashes.