Now To Rivulets From The Mountains Point

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart

Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is Holy.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

All Things Come Round To Him Who Will But Wait.