Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving

The Dead Are Like The Stars By Day; Withdrawn From Mortal Eye, But Not Extinct, They Hold Their Way In Glory Through The Sky.

While Rose-buds Scarcely Show'd Their Hue, But Coyly Linger'd On The Thorn.

Blue Thou Art, Intensely Blue; Flower, Whence Came Thy Dazzling Hue?

Prayer Is The Soul's Sincere Desire, Uttered Or Unexpressed, The Motion Of A Hidden Fire That Trembles In The Breast. Prayer Is The Burden Of A Sigh, The Falling Of A Tear, The Upward Glancing Of An Eye When None But God Is Near.

Eternity: A Moment Standing Still For Ever.