Classic Poem

The sun climbs up the eastern sky,
And sinks as surely in the west;
No prophet now may bid it stand
Until it reach its destined rest;
Nor may our prayers or tears prolong
The lives of those we love the best.

The noisy followers of Fame —
Surely enough of these are sent.
Too few such kindly men as he,
Whose life is its own eulogy,
Whose life is its own eulogy,
His memory his monument.

To crown a brave, pure, Christian life,
Is Heaven itself a meed too high?
Will He, who showers His gifts on earth,
To such as him we mourn, deny
A fairer home among the stars,
The Thousand Islands of the sky?