Through all life’s story you will find
      The miser—­with his hoarded gold—­
    A hermit, dreary and unkind,
      An outcast from the human fold. 
    Men hold him up to view with scorn,
      A creature by his wealth enslaved,
    A spirit craven and forlorn,
      Doomed by the money he has saved.

    No man was ever truly great
      Who sought to serve himself alone,
    Who put himself above the state,
      Above the friends about him thrown. 
    No man was ever truly glad
      Who risked his joy on hoarded pelf,
    And gave of nothing that he had
      Through fear of needing it himself.

    For selfishness is wintry cold,
      And bitter are its joys at last,
    The very charms it tries to hold,
      With woes are quickly overcast. 
    And only he shall gladly live,
      And bravely die when God shall call,
    Who gathers but that he may give,
      And with his fellows shares his all.

         Constant Beauty

It’s good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again,
It’s good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. 
It’s good that we can feel again, the touch of beauties real again,
For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

The roses haven’t changed a bit, nor have the peonies stranged a bit,
They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. 
The world is upside down to-day, there’s much to make us frown to-day
And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

    But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again
      And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way;
    And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again
    And feel that nature hasn’t changed the way we have to-day.

Oh, we have changed from what we were, we’re not the carefree lot we were,
Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain,
But it is good to see once more the budding lilac tree once more,
And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

         When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat

When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do? 
Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through. 
When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn? 
Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our

      land return.

When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree? 
Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea. 
When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way? 
Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play.

    Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn;
    And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one’s return. 
    We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made
       giving sweet,
    But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat.