DUCHESS OF YORK: God bless thee, and put meekness in thy mind, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty! GLOUCESTER: [Aside ] Amen and make me die a good old man! That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing: I marvel why her grace did leave it out.
E'vn in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothes the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Or nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates.
God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.
Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.
Shamrock of foliage, Shamrock of entwining, Shamrock of the prayer, Shamrock of my love. Shamrock of my sorrow, Plant of Patrick of the virtues, Shamrock of the Son of Mary, Journey's end of the peoples. Shamrock of grace, Of joy, of the tombs, It were my wish in death You should grow on my grave.
What seems to grow fairer to me as life goes by is the love and the grace and tenderness of it; not its wit and cleverness and grandeur of knowledge - grand as knowledge is - but just the laughter of children, and the friendship of friends, and the cozy talk by the fire, and sight of flowers, and the sound of music.