Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

Gone Are The Living, But The Dead Remain, And Not Neglected; For A Hand Unseen, Scattering Its Bounty Like A Summer Rain, Still Keeps Their Graves And Their Remembrance Green.

In The Long, Sleepless Watches Of The Night, A Gentle Face The Face Of One Long Dead Looks At Me From The Wall, Where Round Its Head The Night-lamp Casts A Halo Of Pale Light.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

As Unto The Bow The The Cord Is , So Unto The Man Is Woman; Though She Bends Him, She Obeys Him, Though She Draws Him , Yet She Follows: Useless Each Without The Other.