Epitaph
Great love, death-humbled, yields awhile to earth
Its bright one, waiting there the immortal birth:
Rich love, made poor, can trust one hope alone,
Its best, its holiest, to the cold grave-stone:
Eternal Easter of that hope, be born!
The pure make perfect; comfort the forlorn.
Its bright one, waiting there the immortal birth:
Rich love, made poor, can trust one hope alone,
Its best, its holiest, to the cold grave-stone:
Eternal Easter of that hope, be born!
The pure make perfect; comfort the forlorn.
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