Had carved there, ah! me, was—my own.
And what if Life’s thorns pressed my temples
Or sorrow to midnight turns day,
I will press on alone through the darkness,
Believing her hand leads the way.
I will traverse the chill “Swamp of Cypress”
Where the “Rivers of Death” slowly wind;
For she’ll beckon me over with garlands,
And the crown with the lily buds lined.