by Philip James Bailey (1816 – 1902)The Rose is
Weeping for her love,
The nightingale.
And he is flying
Fast above,
To her he will
Not fail.
Already golden
Eve appears;
He wings his way along;
Ah! look he comes
To kiss her tears,
And soothe her
With his song.
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart throbs.
He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
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