Of loving take they 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 vain,
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,
External be the sleep
Unless to waken so.
(J G Lockhart)
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