At times disconsolate, men yet aspire,
Labor and sigh for bauble they desire;
For riches, joys and honors, they contend;
But on the funeral pyre these all must end.
Let thy wish be to find the highest gift,
The Light Divine, ’t will ever thee uplift.
When grief shall rend thy heart, seek thine own soul;
Shut out life’s din, and find that sacred goal.
A talisman I give thee—jadeite green,
’Twill ever lend thee intuition keen.