And friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And gone my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; He giveth His beloved sleep."

Thank God for grace, Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death

Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For tis not in mere death that men die most.