I have seen men march to the wars, and then I have watched their homeward tread, and they brought back bodies of living men, But their eyes were cold and dead.

Kisses kept are wasted love is to be tasted.

But maybe prayer is a road to rise, A mountain path leading toward the skies To assist the spirit who truly tries. But it isn't a shibboleth, creed, nor code, It isn't a pack-horse to carry your load, It isn't a wagon, it's only a road. And perhaps the reward of the spirit who tries Is not the goal, but the exercise!

Don't fight with the pillow, but lay down your head And kick every worriment out of the bed.

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face, It's nothing against you to fall down flat But to lie there - that's a disgrace.

You may batter your way through the thick of the fray, You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt You may be a jack-fool, if you must, but this rule Should ever be kept at the front-- Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head And kick every worriment out of the bed.

Kisses kept are wasted Love is to be tasted. There are some you love, I know Be not loathe to tell them so. Lips go dry and eyes grow wet Waiting to be warmly met. Keep them not in waiting yet Kisses kept are wasted.