LIFE is like a book,

And new years are the openings of fresh pages, 

Each number in its order. Books are prized 

Not for their strength, but for the thoughts that crowd

In lustrous halos round their hallowed leaves; 

And though the book of life may be but short, 

Yet if from every page there shimmers out 

The one word, Love, that volume will at last 

Host in a golden binding on the shelves, 

The mystic shelves of God's great library. 

We measure life by years; but not so God. 

A thousand ages are as one short day 

With him. He counts by deeds, not fleeting hours, 

And he who speaks a gentle word, or gives 

A cup of water to a fainting one, 

Will count more birthdays in Heaven's register 

Than if he lived a million centuries 

Unto himself alone. The seed-time now is ours, 

And with each new year we begin to sow 

Another furrow in life’s fertile field; 

And at the coming harvest we shall reap 

As we have sown rich golden grain or weeds.