Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth. Luke 8:52
Silently the shades of evening
Gather round my lowly door;
Silently they bring before me
Faces I shall see no more.
O the lost, the unforgotten,
Though the world be oft forgot!
O the shrouded and the lonely,
In our hearts they perish not!
Living in the silent hours,
Where our spirits only blend,
They, unlinked with earthly trouble,
We, still hoping for its end.
How such holy memories cluster,
Like the stars when storms are past,
Pointing up to that fair heaven,
We may hope to gain at last.