SLEEP, precious ashes, in thy sacred urn From Death and Grave till th' last trump sounds return; Meanwhile embalm'd in Virtues. Joseph's Tomb Were fitter for thee, than the Earth's dark womb. Cease, Friends, to weep; she's but asleep, not dead, -- Chang'd from her husband's, to her mother's, bed; Or from his bosom into Abram's rather, Where now she rests, Blest Soul, in such a Father. Thus Death hath done his best, and worst. His best, In sending Virtue to her place of rest; His worst, in leaving him, as dead, in life Whose chiefest Joys were in his dearest Wife. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AUDACIOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON OUR PRAYER OF THANKS by CARL SANDBURG SONNET TO HIS FRIEND R.L. IN PRAISE OF MUSIQUE AND POETRIE by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE BABIE by JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN LINES TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860 by HARRIET BEECHER STOWE |