The years are many, the years are good,
And crowned with glorious womanhood.
No idle year, misused, misspent;
No year of self-aggrandizement.
Just simple years of love's hard labor,
Remembering to "Love thy neighbor."
Plumbing the depths of life's deep joys,
In bearing and rearing four fine boys.
Each grandchild brings her faith's renewal,
And is counted in as a priceless jewel.
Her home - The House beside the road,
Where any pilgrim many unload
His heavy burden, or his care,
And know that he'll find solace there.
Oh, as the years grow long and weighty,
Give me, I pray, her grace at eighty.
Florence B. Taylor
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