Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the chast’ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are no more.