What is a year that comes and goes
Unless it mark a noble deed?
We sow the seed
Of flower or weed:
Thrice happy he who leaves a rose.
What is a life in vainness spent,
That will not bear the common test,
When, laid to rest
In earth's cold breast,
We sleep at last, insentient?
What is a gift bestowed on man,
Unless he spreads abroad its light
And turns its might
To aid the right
And strives to do the best he can?
What matters it if all your toil
Thankless for ever must remain?
When by your pain
One soul will gain
Somewhat to calm its mortal coil.