Yes, drifting, drifting; and I thought that life, When nearing death is like the sunset sky And death is but the slow, sure drifting in, To rest far more securely, by and by.
Every hand and every hour should be devoted to rescue the world from its insanity of guilt, and to assuage the pangs of human hearts with balm and anodyne. To pity distress is but human; to relieve it is Godlike.
