Keep ye the faith and still be brave!
From every tomb that Easter day
The stone of death was rolled away;
The soul lives on beyond the grave,
Death is but rest from pain and strife—
The gate to life!
October
October and the crimsoned trees,
The smell of smoke upon the breeze,
The morning mist and autumn's chill,
The brown of death upon the hill—
And yet, a sense of loveliness
Which pen or brush cannot express.
A strange, mysterious calm which seems
The canvas of a thousand dreams;
The calm of duty nobly done,
The peace of battles truly won,
The joy with which all hearts are thrilled,
A sense of promises fulfilled.
Beyond October winter waits
To pile its snow before the gates;
What men call death shall hurl its stroke
Alike at plant or giant oak—
And yet beneath the snowdrifts deep
We know the violets merely sleep.
Mankind has its October, too,
When little more there is to do,
And we may claim the sweet content
Of strength that has been nobly spent—
And yet we fear, when comes the snow,
There is no spring where we shall go.
October with its lovely breath
Voices the cry: there is no death!
Men read it in a thousand ways;
We see beyond the mist and haze
Which shroud the hills and valleys deep,
That all shall wake who fall asleep.
Mother and the Styles