If I should die, grieve not for youth
Blighted, and towers of hope that fell;
God lives and sees, His word is truth,
And in His hands to die is well.
Nor think my life a tree that grew
Awry: my few but flowing days
So filled with gifts, but chiefly two,
Are missals of my Maker’s praise.
So do not curse the God who took
And gave, nor burn on my behalf,
But dry your tears, and closer look,
And write my grateful epitaph.
Write: He whom death took early off
Was one – this much I think was mine –
Drank somewhat deep of human love
Nor wholly missed the love Divine