I read, dear friend, in your dear face
Your life's tale told with perfect grace; 
The river of your life, I trace
up the sun-checkered, devious bed
To the far-distant fountain head. 

Not one quick beat of your warm heart, 
Nor thought that came to you apart,
Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain
Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain; 

But as some lone, wood-wandering child
Brings home with him at evening mild
The thorns and flowers of all the wild,
From your whole life, O fair and true,
Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!" 
R.L. Stevenson