Let me remember her not as one dead,
But as one that has fallen asleep;
She will wake in the morning, I know, at my call,
Awake in the angels’ keep!
THOUGHT.
Thought alone is eternal.—Young.
’Tis the whisp’ring of angels, the brush of their wings;
’Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay
To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings
And flings out its notes on life’s billowed bay.