When The Good Man Yields His Breath

Prayer Moves The Arm Which Moves The World, And Brings Salvation Down.

Night Is The Time To Weep,to Wet With Unseen Tearsthose Graves Of Memory Where Sleepthe Joys Of Other Years.

Dark-green And Gemm'd With Flowers Of Snow, With Close Uncrowded Branches Spread Not Proudly High, Nor Meanly Low, A Graceful Myrtle Rear'd Its Head.

Who That Hath Ever Been Could Bear To Be No More? Yet Who Would Tread Again The Scene He Trod Through Life Before?

While Rose-buds Scarcely Show'd Their Hue, But Coyly Linger'd On The Thorn.