The Spirit-world Around This World Of Sense

Safe From Temptation, Safe From Sin's Pollution, She Lives Whom We Call Dead.

O Thou Child Of Many Prayers! Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares! Care And Age Come Unawares!

The Great Tragedy Of The Average Man Is That He Goes To His Grave With His Music Still In Him.

In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.