O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet,

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.

And Each Man Stands With His Face In The Light. Of His Own Drawn Sword, Ready To Do What A Hero Can.

Folded Eyes See Brighter Colors Than The Open Ever Do.

The Music Soars Within The Little Lark, And The Lark Soars.

For None Can Express Thee, Though All Should Approve Thee. I Love Thee So, Dear, That I Only Can Love Thee.