.. . . Would I Were In

In Your Arms Was Still Delight, Quiet As A Street At Night; And Thoughts Of You, I Do Remember, Were Green Leaves In A Darkened Chamber, Were Dark Clouds In A Moonless Sky.

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

A Kiss Makes The Heart Young Again And Wipes Out The Years.

They Say That The Dead Die Not, But Remain Near To The Rich Heirs Of Their Grief And Mirth. I Think They Ride The Calm Mid-heaven, As These, In Wise Majestic Melancholy Train, And Watch The Moon, And The Still-raging Seas, And Men, Coming And Going On The Earth.

And In My Flower-beds, I Think, Smile The Carnation And The Pink.