The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her

There Is A Calm For Those Who Weep, A Rest For Weary Pilgrims Found, They Softly Lie And Sweetly Sleep Low In The Ground.

Night Is The Time To Weep,to Wet With Unseen Tearsthose Graves Of Memory Where Sleepthe Joys Of Other Years.

When Evening Closes Nature's Eye, The Glow-worm Lights Her Little Spark To Captivate Her Favorite Fly And Tempt The Rover Through The Dark.

The Dead Are Like The Stars By Day; Withdrawn From Mortal Eye, But Not Extinct, They Hold Their Way In Glory Through The Sky.

Who That Hath Ever Been Could Bear To Be No More? Yet Who Would Tread Again The Scene He Trod Through Life Before?