Do not think of them all as dead, These the loved that we used to know; Every road has a bend ahead, Out of our sight awhile they go, Out of our sight around the bend -- But we all shall meet at the journey's end. Do not think of them, these who died, As dead and vanished and turned to clay: The load of life they have thrown aside, But their souls march up to the hills of day -- We need but follow, who fall behind, A little longer our loved to find. Do not think of them there at rest; Think of them rather as where they are: Across the mountains and farther west, Perhaps tonight on that very star; Do not think of them dead and gone -- Think of them only as farther on. |