There Is Something In The Place Where

To Her Bier Comes The Year Not With Weeping And Distress, As Mortals Do, But, To Guide Her Way To It, All The Trees Have Torches Lit; Blazing Red The Maples Shine The Woodlands Through.

When April Steps Aside For May, Like Diamonds All The Rain-drops Glisten; Fresh Violets Open Every Day: To Some New Bird Each Hour We Listen.

These Blossoms, Gathered In Familiar Paths, With Dear Companions Now Passed Out Of Sight, Shall Not Be Laid Upon Their Graves. They Live, Since Love Is Deathless. Pleasure Now Nor Pride Is Theirs In Mortal Wise, But Hallowing Thoughts Will Meet The Offering, Of So Little Worth, Wanting The Benison Death Has Made Divine.

Whatever With The Past Has Gone, The Best Is Always Yet To Come.

Many Kinds Of Fruit Grow Upon The Tree Of Life, But None So Sweet As Friendship; As With The Orange Tree Its Blossoms And Fruit Appear At The Same Time, Full Of Refreshment For Sense And For Soul.