Mrs. E. Cohrs Brown
Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the chast'ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are no more.
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the chast'ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are no more.
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