He is not dead, he is just - away.
Think of him still as the same, I say, He is not dead, he is just - away.
The ripest peach is highest on the tree
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
Just a wee cot-the crickets chirr-love and the smiling face of her.
Who bides his time tastes the sweet Of honey in the saltiest tear; And though he fares with slowest feet Joy runs to meet him drawing near.