SINCE Death has summoned to the dark Beyond

Our best and bravest, and no heart dare hope

For the dim days to be-so frail, so fond

And foolish our dead dreams-we blindly grope

Amid a world convulsed by storm and strife,

With helpless hands, seeking our old lost faith,

Our vanished loves; calling in vain for life;

The answer from the reeking void is "Death."

Nature, hast thou no part in this our pain?

No sympathy with man? Else why bestow

The smiling tears of tender April rain,

The loveliness we loved a year ago?

The golden glory of the fainting west,

The broken gleam of stars on windy seas,

The splendour of the mountain's lofty crest

Darkling against the sky, the evening breeze

Laden with perfume of an English spring,

The purple pageantry of hill and moor,

The joy of flow'rs that blow, of birds that sing,

The beauty that our hearts so loved of yore

Why flaunt them while we weep? Soft she replies,

ìAs flowers fade, suns set, and yet shall be,

So, tho' men perish, Man's spirit never dies,

But lives and grows to all Eternity."