The year goes wrong, and tares grow strong, Hope starves without a crumb; But God's time is our harvest time, And that is sure to come.

The future ain't what it used to be.

Some day Love shall claim his own Some day Right ascend his throne, Some day hidden Truth be known; Some day--some sweet day.

Cruel and cold is the judgment of man, Cruel as winter, and cold as the snow; But by-and-by will the deed and the plan Be judged by the motive that lieth below.

The joy late coming late departs.

O, once in each man's life, at least, Good luck knocks at his door; And wit to seize the flitting guest Need never hunger more. But while the loitering idler waits Good luck beside his fire, The bold heart storms at fortune's gates, And conquers its desire.