Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

by Unknown

AGE AND DEATH

MATURITY, VICTORY, HEAVEN

A DEFIANCE TO OLD AGE

Thou shalt not rob me, thievish Time,

Of all my blessings or my joy;

I have some jewels in my heart

Which thou art powerless to destroy.

Thou mayest denude mine arm of strength,

And leave my temples seamed and bare;

Deprive mine eyes of passion's light,

And scatter silver o'er my hair.

But never, while a book remains,

And breathes a woman or a child,

Shalt thou deprive me whilst I live

Of feelings fresh and undefiled.

No, never while the earth is fair,

And Reason keeps its dial bright,

Whate'er thy robberies, O Time,

Shall I be bankrupt of delight.

Whate'er thy victories o'er my frame,

Thou canst not cheat me of this truth:

That, though the limbs may faint and fail,

The spirit can renew its youth.

So, thievish Time, I fear thee not;

Thou'rt powerless on this heart of mine;

My precious jewels are my own,

'Tis but the settings that are thine.

—Charles Mackay.

———

SIMPLE FAITH

You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell

And still go on. If but the way be straight

I cannot go amiss! Before me lies

Dawn and the Day! the Night behind me; that

Suffices me; I break the bounds; I see,

And nothing more; believe, and nothing less.

My future is not one of my concerns.

———

A MORNING THOUGHT

What if some morning, when the stars were paling,

And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear,

Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence

Of a benignant Spirit standing near,

And I should tell him, as he stood beside me,

"This is our Earth—most friendly Earth, and fair;

Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow

Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;

"There is blest living here, loving and serving,

And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear;

But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer—

His name is Death; flee, lest he find thee here!"

And what if then, while the still morning brightened,

And freshened in the elm the summer's breath,

Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel,

And take my hand and say, "My name is Death."

—Edward Rowland Sill.

———

On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,

Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:

So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,

Calm thou may'st smile while all around thee weep.

—From the Persian.

———

EMMAUS

Abide with us, O wondrous guest!

A stranger still, though long possessed;

Our hearts thy love unknown desire,

And marvel how the sacred fire

Should burn within us while we stray

From that sad spot where Jesus lay.

So when our youth, through bitter loss

Or hopes deferred, draws near the cross,

We lose the Lord our childhood knew

And God's own word may seem untrue;

Yet Christ himself shall soothe the way

Towards the evening of our day.

And though we travel towards the west

'Tis still for toil, and not for rest;

No fate except that life is done;

At Emmaus is our work begun;

Then let us watch lest tears should hide

The Lord who journeys by our side.

———

NOT NOW BUT THEN

Take the joys and bear the sorrows—neither with extreme concern!

Living here means nescience simply; 'tis next life that helps to learn.

Shut those eyes next life will open—stop those ears next life will teach

Hearing's office; close those lips next life will give the power of speech!

Or, if action more amuse thee than the passive attitude,

Bravely bustle through thy being, busy thee for ill or good,

Reap this life's success or failure! Soon shall things be unperplexed,

And the right or wrong, now tangled, lie unraveled in the next.

—Robert Browning.

———

CHEERFUL OLD AGE

Ah! don't be sorrowful, darling,

And don't be sorrowful, pray;

For taking the year together, my dear,

There isn't more night than day.

'Tis rainy weather, my darling;

Time's waves they heavily run;

But taking the year together, my dear,

There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,

Our heads are growing gray;

And taking the year together, my dear,

You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,

And our roses long ago;

And the time of year is coming, my dear,

For the silent night and snow.

And God is God, my darling,

Of night as well as day,

And we feel and know that we can go

Wherever he leads the way.

Ay, God of night, my darling;

Of the night of death so grim;

The gate that leads out of life, good wife,

Is the gate that leads to him.

———

For age is opportunity no less

Than youth itself, though in another dress,

And as the evening twilight fades away

The sky is filled with stars invisible by day.

———

At sixty-two life has begun;

At seventy-three begin once more;

Fly swifter as thou near'st the sun,

And brighter shine at eighty-four.

At ninety-five

Shouldst thou arrive,

Still wait on God, and work and thrive.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes.

———

For what is age but youth's full bloom,

A riper, more transcendent youth?

A weight of gold is never old.

———

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh,

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

—William Wordsworth.

———

Fill, brief or long, my granted years

Of life with love to thee and man;

Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest,

But let my last days be my best.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

An age so blest that, by its side,

Youth seems the waste instead.

—Robert Browning.

———

ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE

At the midnight, in the silence of the sleep-time,

When you set your fancies free,

Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned—

Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you love so,

—Pity me?

O to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!

What had I on earth to do

With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?

Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel

—Being—who?

One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward,

Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,

Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday, in the bustle of man's work-time,

Greet the unseen with a cheer!

Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,

"Strive and thrive!" cry, "Speed,—fight on, fare ever

There as here!"

—Robert Browning.

———

Let no one till his death

Be called unhappy. Measure not the work

Until the day's out and the labor done;

Then bring your gauges.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

———

I WOULD LIVE LONGER

Phil. i. 23.

O I would live longer, I gladly would stay,

Though "storm after storm rises dark o'er the way";

Temptations and trials beset me, 'tis true,

Yet gladly I'd stay where there's so much to do.

O I would live longer—not "away from my Lord"—

For ever he's with me, fulfilling his word;

In sorrow I lean on his arm, for he's near,

In darkness he speaks, and my spirit doth cheer.

Yes, I would live longer some trophy to win,

Some soul to lead back from the dark paths of sin;

Some weak one to strengthen, some faint one to cheer,

And heaven will be sweeter for laboring here.

But—would I live longer? How can I decide,

With Jesus in glory, still here to abide?

O Lord, leave not the decision to me,

Where best I can serve thee, Lord, there let me be.

—L. Kinney.

———

THERE IS NO DEATH

There is no death! the stars go down

To rise upon some fairer shore,

And bright in heaven's jeweled crown

They shine forever more.

There is no death! the dust we tread

Shall change, beneath the summer showers,

To golden grain, or mellow fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the leaves may fall,

The flowers may fade and pass away—

They only wait, through wintry hours,

The warm sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts

That Heaven hath kindly lent to earth

Are ever first to seek again

The country of their birth;

And all things that, for grief or joy,

Are worthy of thy love and care,

Whose loss has left us desolate,

Are safely garnered there.

* * * * * * *

They are not dead! they have but passed

Beyond the mists that blind us here,

Into the new and larger life

Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay

To put their shining raiment on;

They have not wandered far away—

They are not "lost" or "gone."

Though disenthralled and glorified,

They still are here and love us yet;

The dear ones they have left behind

They never can forget.

—J. C. McCreery.

———

PROSPICE (LOOK FORWARD)

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,

The mist in my face;

When the snows begin, and the blasts denote

I am nearing the place,

The power of the night, the press of the storm,

The post of the foe;

Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form?

Yet the strong man must go;

For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall—

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness, and cold.

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,

The black minute's at end,

And the elements' rage, the fiend voices that rave,

Shall dwindle, shall blend,

Shall change: shall become first a peace out of pain,

Then a light, then thy breast,

O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,

And with God be the rest!

—Robert Browning.

———

OUR HOME ABOVE

We thank thee, gracious Father,

For many a pleasant day,

For bird and flower, and joyous hour,

For friends, and work, and play.

Of blessing and of mercy

Our life has had its share;

This world is not a wilderness,

Thou hast made all things fair.

But fairer still, and sweeter,

The things that are above;

We look and long to join the song

In the land of light and love.

We trust the Word which tells us

Of that divine abode;

By faith we bring its glories nigh,

While hope illumes the road.

So death has lost its terrors;

How can we fear it now?

Its face, once grim, now leads to him

At whose command we bow.

His presence makes us happy,

His service is delight,

The many mansions gleam and glow,

The saints our souls invite.

We welcome that departure

Which brings us to our Lord;

We hail with joy the blest employ

Those wondrous realms afford.

We call it home up yonder;

Down here we toil and strain

As in some mine's dark, danksome depths;

There sunshine bright we gain.

To God, then, sound the timbrel!

There's naught can do us harm;

Our greatest foe has been laid low;

What else can cause alarm?

For freedom and for victory

Our hearts give loud acclaim;

Whate'er befall, on him we call;

North, South, East, West, in him we rest;

All glory to his name!

—James Mudge.

———

AT LAST

When on my day of life the night is falling,

And, in the winds from unsunned spaces blown,

I hear far voices out of darkness calling

My feet to paths unknown;

Thou who hast made my home of life so pleasant,

Leave not its tenant when its walls decay;

O Love Divine, O Helper ever present,

Be thou my strength and stay!

Be near me when all else is from me drifting:

Earth, sky, home's pictures, days of shade and shine,

And kindly faces to my own uplifting

The love which answers mine.

I have but Thee, my Father! let thy spirit

Be with me then to comfort and uphold;

No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit,

Nor street of shining gold.

Suffice it if—my good and ill unreckoned,

And both forgiven through thy abounding grace—

I find myself by hands familiar beckoned

Unto my fitting place.

Some humble door among thy many mansions,

Some sheltering shade where sin and striving cease,

And flows forever through heaven's green expansions

The river of thy peace.

There, from the music round about me stealing,

I fain would learn the new and holy song,

And find at last, beneath thy trees of healing,

The life for which I long.

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

READY

I would be ready, Lord,

My house in order set,

None of the work thou gavest me

To do unfinished yet.

I would be watching, Lord,

With lamp well trimmed and clear,

Quick to throw open wide the door,

What time thou drawest near.

I would be waiting, Lord,

Because I cannot know

If in the night or morning watch

I may be called to go.

I would be waking, Lord,

Each day, each hour for thee;

Assured that thus I wait thee well,

Whene'er thy coming be.

I would be living, Lord,

As ever in thine eye;

For whoso lives the nearest thee

The fittest is to die.

—Margaret J. Preston.

———

THALASSA! THALASSA!

I stand upon the summit of my life,

Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,

The battle and the burden; vast, afar

Beyond these weary ways, behold the Sea!

The sea, o'erswept by clouds and winds and waves;

By thoughts and wishes manifold; whose breath

Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.

Palter no question of the horizon dim—

Cut loose the bark! Such voyage, it is rest;

Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,

A widening heaven, a current without care,

Eternity! Deliverance, promise, course,

Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

—Brownlee Brown.

———

AT END

At end of love, at end of life,

At end of hope, at end of strife,

At end of all we cling to so,

The sun is setting—must we go?

At dawn of love, at dawn of life,

At dawn of peace that follows strife,

At dawn of all we long for so,

The sun is rising—let us go!

—Louise Chandler Moulton.

———

WHAT IS DEATH

It is not death to die—

To leave this weary road,

And, 'mid the brotherhood on high,

To be at home with God.

It is not death to close

The eye long dimmed by tears,

And wake in glorious repose

To spend eternal years.

It is not death to bear

The wrench that sets us free

From dungeon chain, to breathe the air

Of boundless liberty.

It is not death to fling

Aside this sinful dust,

And rise on strong exulting wing

To live among the just.

Jesus, thou Prince of life,

Thy chosen cannot die!

Like thee they conquer in the strife

To reign with thee on high.

—Abraham H. C. Malan, tr. by George Washington Bethune.

———

UPHILL

Does the road wind uphill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

You cannot miss the inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at the door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labor you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yes, beds for all who come.

—Christina G. Rossetti.

———

ON SECOND THOUGHT

The end's so near,

It is all one

What track I steer,

What work's begun,

It is all one

If nothing's done,

The end's so near!

The end's so near,

It is all one

What track thou steer,

What work's begun—

Some deed, some plan,

As thou'rt a man!

The end's so near!

—Edward Rowland Sill.

———

THE VOICE CALLING

In the hush of April weather,

With the bees in budding heather,

And the white clouds floating, floating,

and the sunshine falling broad;

While my children down the hill

Run and leap, and I sit still,

Through the silence, through the silence

art thou calling, O my God?

Through my husband's voice that prayeth,

Though he knows not what he sayeth,

Is it thou who, in thy holy word, hast

solemn words for me?

And when he clasps me fast,

And smiles fondly o'er the past,

And talks hopeful of the future, Lord,

do I hear only thee?

Not in terror nor in thunder

Comes thy voice, although it sunder

Flesh from spirit, soul from body,

human bliss from human pain;

All the work that was to do,

All the joys so sweet and new,

Which thou shew'dst me in a vision,

Moses-like, and hid'st again.

From this Pisgah, lying humbled,

The long desert where I stumbled

And the fair plains I shall never reach

seem equal, clear, and far:

On this mountain-top of ease

Thou wilt bury me in peace;

While my tribes march onward, onward

unto Canaan and to war.

———

In my boy's loud laughter ringing,

In the sigh, more soft than singing,

Of my baby girl that nestles up unto this mortal breast,

After every voice most dear,

Comes a whisper, "Rest not here."

And the rest thou art preparing, is it best, Lord, is it best?

Lord, a little, little longer!

Sobs the earth love, growing stronger;

He will miss me, and go mourning through his solitary days,

And heaven were scarcely heaven

If these lambs that thou hast given

Were to slip out of our keeping and be lost in the world's ways.

Lord, it is not fear of dying,

Nor an impious denying

Of thy will—which evermore on earth, in heaven, be done;

But a love that, desperate, clings

Unto these, my precious things,

In the beauty of the daylight, and glory of the sun.

Ah! thou still art calling, calling,

With a soft voice unappalling;

And it vibrates in far circles through the everlasting years;

When thou knockest, even so!

I will arise and go:

What, my little ones, more violets? nay, be patient; mother hears!

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

———

THE "SILVER CORD IS LOOSED"

In the June twilight, in the soft, gray twilight,

The yellow sun-glow trembling through the rainy eve,

As my love lay quiet, came the solemn fiat,

"All these things for ever, for ever thou must leave."

My love she sank down quivering like a pine in tempest shivering,

"I have had so little happiness as yet beneath the sun;

I have called the shadow sunshine, and the merest frosty moonshine

I have, weeping, blessed the Lord for as if daylight had begun.

"Till he sent a sudden angel, with a glorious sweet evangel,

Who turned all my tears to pearl-gems, and crowned me—so little worth;

Me! and through the rainy even changed my poor earth into heaven

Or, by wondrous revelation, brought the heavens down to earth.

"O the strangeness of the feeling!—O the infinite revealing,—

To think how God must love me to have made me so content!

Though I would have served him humbly, and patiently, and dumbly,

Without any angel standing in the pathway that I went."

In the June twilight, in the lessening twilight,

My love cried from my bosom an exceeding bitter cry:

"Lord, wait a little longer, until my soul is stronger!

O wait till thou hast taught me to be content to die!"

Then the tender face, all woman, took a glory superhuman,

And she seemed to watch for something, or see some I could not see:

From my arms she rose full-statured, all transfigured, queenly-featured,—

"As thy will is done in heaven, so on earth still let it be!"

I go lonely, I go lonely, and I feel that earth is only

The vestibule of places whose courts we never win;

Yet I see my palace shining, where my love sits amaranths twining,

And I know the gates stand open, and I shall enter in!

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

———

CROSSING THE BAR

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as, moving, seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

—Alfred Tennyson.

———

LAUS MORTIS

Nay, why should I fear Death,

Who gives us life, and in exchange takes breath?

He is like cordial spring,

That lifts above the soil each buried thing;

Like autumn, kind and brief,

The frost that chills the branches frees the leaf;

Like winter's stormy hours,

That spread their fleece of snow to save the flowers;

The lordliest of all things!—

Life lends us only feet, Death gives us wings.

Fearing no covert thrust,

Let me walk onward, armed in valiant trust;

Dreading no unseen knife,

Across Death's threshold step from life to life!

O all ye frightened folk,

Whether ye wear a crown or bear a yoke,

Laid in one equal bed,

When once your coverlet of grass is spread,

What daybreak need you fear?

The Love will rule you there that guides you here.

Where Life, the sower, stands,

Scattering the ages from his swinging hands,

Thou waitest, reaper lone,

Until the multitudinous grain hath grown.

Scythe-bearer, when thy blade

Harvests my flesh, let me be unafraid.

God's husbandman thou art,

In his unwithering sheaves, O, bind my heart!

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

———

IMMANUEL'S LAND

The sands of time are sinking,

The dawn of heaven breaks,

The summer morn I've sighed for—

The fair, sweet morn awakes.

Dark, dark hath been the midnight,

But dayspring is at hand,

And glory, glory dwelleth

In Immanuel's land.

I've wrestled on toward heaven

'Gainst storm, and wind, and tide,

Now, like a weary traveler

That leaneth on his guide,

Amid the shades of evening,

While sinks life's lingering sand,

I hail the glory dawning

From Immanuel's land.

Deep waters crossed life's pathway;

The hedge of thorns was sharp;

Now these lie all behind me.

O for a well-tuned harp!

O to join the Hallelujah

With yon triumphant band

Who sing where glory dwelleth—

In Immanuel's land!

With mercy and with judgment

My web of time he wove,

And aye the dews of sorrow

Were lustered with his love;

I'll bless the hand that guided,

I'll bless the heart that planned,

When throned where glory dwelleth—

In Immanuel's land.

—Annie R. Cousin.

———

The grave itself is but a covered bridge

Leading from light to light through a brief darkness.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

I hold that, since by death alone

God bids my soul go free,

In death a richer blessing is

Than all the world to me.

—Scheffler, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

———

DEATH

Fearest the shadow? Keep thy trust;

Still the star-worlds roll.

Fearest death? sayest, "Dust to dust"?

No; say "Soul to Soul!"

—John Vance Cheney.

———

THE TENANT

This body is my house—it is not I;

Herein I sojourn till, in some far sky,

I lease a fairer dwelling, built to last

Till all the carpentry of time is past.

When from my high place viewing this lone star,

What shall I care where these poor timbers are?

What though the crumbling walls turn dust and loam—

I shall have left them for a larger home.

What though the rafters break, the stanchions rot,

When earth has dwindled to a glimmering spot!

When thou, clay cottage, fallest, I'll immerse

My long-cramp'd spirit in the universe.

Through uncomputed silences of space

I shall yearn upward to the leaning Face.

The ancient heavens will roll aside for me,

As Moses monarch'd the dividing sea.

This body is my house—it is not I.

Triumphant in this faith I live, and die.

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

———

TO OUR BELOVED

It singeth low in every heart,

We hear it, each and all—

A song of those who answer not,

However we may call;

They throng the silence of the breast,

We see them as of yore—

The kind, the brave, the true, the sweet,

Who walk with us no more.

'Tis hard to take the burden up

When these have laid it down;

They brightened all the joy of life,

They softened every frown;

But, O, 'tis good to think of them

When we are troubled sore!

Thanks be to God that such have been,

Though they are here no more.

More homelike seems the vast unknown

Since they have entered there;

To follow them were not so hard,

Wherever they may fare;

They cannot be where God is not,

On any sea or shore;

Whate'er betides, thy love abides,

Our God, for evermore.

—John White Chadwick.

———

A DEATH BED

As I lay sick upon my bed

I heard them say "in danger";

The word seemed very strange to me

Could any word seem stranger?

"In danger"—of escape from sin

For ever and for ever!

Of entering that most holy place

Where evil entereth never!

"In danger"—of beholding him

Who is my soul's salvation!

Whose promises sustain my soul

In blest anticipation!

"In danger"—of soon shaking off

Earth's last remaining fetter!

And of departing hence to be

"With Christ," which is far better!

It is a solemn thing to die,

To face the king Immortal,

And each forgiven sinner should

Tread softly o'er the portal.

But when we have confessed our sins

To him who can discern them,

And God has given pardon, peace,

Tho' we could ne'er deserve them,

Then, dying is no dangerous thing;

Safe in the Saviour's keeping,

The ransomed soul is gently led

Beyond the reach of weeping.

So tell me with unfaltering voice

When Hope is really dawning;

I should not like to sleep away

My few hours till the morning.

———

Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust,

(Since he who knows our need is just,)

That somehow, somewhere meet we must.

Alas for him who never sees

The stars shine through his cypress trees!

Who hopeless lays his dead away,

Nor looks to see the breaking day

Across the mournful marbles play;

Who hath not learned in hours of faith

This truth to flesh and sense unknown;

That Life is ever lord of death,

And Love can never lose its own!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

AFTERWARD

There is no vacant chair. The loving meet—

A group unbroken—smitten, who knows how?

One sitteth silent only, in his usual seat;

We gave him once that freedom. Why not now?

Perhaps he is too weary, and needs rest;

He needed it too often, nor could we

Bestow. God gave it, knowing how to do it best.

Which of us would disturb him? Let him be.

There is no vacant chair. If he will take

The mood to listen mutely, be it done.

By his least mood we crossed, for which the heart must ache,

Plead not nor question! Let him have this one.

Death is a mood of life. It is no whim

By which life's Giver wrecks a broken heart.

Death is life's reticence. Still audible to him,

The hushed voice, happy, speaketh on, apart.

There is no vacant chair. To love is still

To have. Nearer to memory than to eye,

And dearer yet to anguish than to comfort, will

We hold him by our love, that shall not die,

For while it doth not, thus he cannot. Try!

Who can put out the motion or the smile?

The old ways of being noble all with him laid by?

Because we love he is. Then trust awhile.

—Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward.

———

OUR TWO GIFTS

Two gifts God giveth, and he saith

One shall be forfeit in the strife—

The one no longer needed: life,

No hand shall take the other, death.

—John Vance Cheney.

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ATHANASIA

The ship may sink,

And I may drink

A hasty death in the bitter sea;

But all that I leave

In the ocean grave

Can be slipped and spared, and no loss to me.

What care I

Though falls the sky

And the shriveling earth to a cinder turn;

No fires of doom

Can ever consume

What never was made nor meant to burn!

Let go the breath!

There is no death

To a living soul, nor loss, nor harm.

Not of the clod

Is the life of God—

Let it mount, as it will, from form to form.

—Charles Gordon Ames.

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