By RUTH LAMB.
Not at the gates of pearl or streets of gold,
Not with the endless day or songs of praise;
In meeting those above we loved below,
Or echoing back their new, exultant lays.
Not in the thought of tears for ever dried,
Of pain, want, weariness and sorrow fled;
Or in the thought that nothing there can part
Those loved and lost ones whom we call “Our dead.”
So vast our heritage, we claim all these,