WHEN youthful faith hath fled, Of loving take thy leave; Be constant to the dead, -- The dead cannot deceive. Sweet, modest flowers of spring, How fleet your balmy day! And man's brief year can bring No secondary May, -- No earthly burst again Of gladness out of gloom: Fond hope and vision wane, Ungrateful to the tomb. But 'tis an old belief That on some solemn shore, Beyond the sphere of grief, Dear friends shall meet once more, -- Beyond the sphere of time And sin and fate's control, Serene in endless prime Of body and of soul. That creed I fain would keep; That hope I'll not forgo: Eternal be the sleep, Unless to waken so! |