Louisa May Alcott


A S the wind at play with a spark
 Of fire that glows through the night,
As the speed of the soaring lark
 That wings to the sky his flight,
So swiftly thy soul has sped
 On its upward, wonderful way,
Like the lark, when the dawn is red,
 In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead
 Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
 And the mourners kneel and pray;
From thy semblance, dumb and stark,
 The soul has taken its flight—
Out of the finite dark,
 Into the Infinite Light.
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