Classic Poem

He is not dead! For Death can only claim
Those who have lived their lives for self alone
Or walked with Sin; and he whose very name
We love, had naught for which death should atone.

He is not dead! For when the sunlight fills
The world, I see it in his happy face;
The blue sky with his reawakening thrills,
In every gentle breeze his voice I trace.

“There is no God!” we cry, when, wrung with pain,
Our hearts rebel, and eyes with tears are dim;
Yet his own life was refutation plain—
No one but God could have created him!

He is not dead! The violets that were dear
To him, shall tell us plainly that no death
Can touch his soul, as each succeeding year
They stir, to life renewed, in Nature's breath.

Beneath a shelt'ring elm, upon a knoll,
There rests, in flowers, the Garment that he wore;
In sunlight, love, and peace, his calm, white soul
Guides and protects those whom he loved before.

The circle of his life was small, but bright—
So golden were his deeds, his thoughts so rare,—
And now it is a halo of God's light
That any Angel would be proud to wear!