Sunday, March 1, 1868 - "We know this world is transient..."

This is a fair kind of a day. This is the first day of March. Some of the folks are to Church to day.
This is the last Sunday for Bill in New York State. Thid Dickson went down to Church to day. 1868
[My dear wife & I are at home] in Bovina. Del. Co. NY.

Lines Poetry.
We journey on; this wilderness
Is not our final home;
We journey on; thare is a bourne(?).
From whence we'll not return.
We know this world is transient;
Hence we our lamps should trim
That when the Bridgegroom comes and calls
We'll enter in with him.