The Groves Were God's First Temples.

The Rose That Lives Its Little Hour Is Prized Beyone The Sculpted Flower.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

Where Are The Flowers, The Fair Young Flowers, That Lately Sprang And Stood In Brighter Light And Softer Airs, A Beauteous Sisterhood?

Sustained And Soothed By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.