We know not that of which we dream.
Our lives might have been sadder yet
God only knows what might have been.
Forgive us, Lord, our little faith;
And help us all, from morn to e'en,
Still to believe that lot were best
Which is—not that which might have been.
And grant we may so pass the days
The cradle and the grave between,
That death's dark hour not darker be