Then—when the farewell hour finally draweth nigh,—
Whether in morn’s hum, or silence of eventide,—
Send forth the best of thine angels to take to thy
Bosom of mercy her peerlessly perfect soul!
HOW WEARY! HOW DREARY!
How weary! how dreary! with no friend to ease the heart’s pain
In moments of sorrow of soul!
Fond desires! But what use the desire that is ever in vain?
And o’er us the best years roll.
To love. But the loved one? ’Tis nothing to love for a space;