Death always chooses the sweetest flowers
When he comes to this living world of ours;
And now he has chosen thee, sweet place!
The loveliest part of the earth’s fair face,
As a home for those who silent sleep,
Where friends may come, and smile, or weep;
For Death is not always a tyrant king,
Casting a gloom over every thing;
Here dwelleth not unmingled pain,
For those who die shall live again,