Classic Poem

Time's hand, which wrinkles ev'ry face,
No furrow on the heart can trace
While love sustains its pow'rs;
For those who shun domestic strife,
His scythe shall mow the weeds of life,
And only prune its flow'rs.

If our thoughts never roam
From the pleasures of home,
Ev'ry day shall increase our delight:
And Cupid shall stay
Till his pinions, grown grey,
No longer can serve him for flight!