the soul of conversation is sympathy
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Although no words can really help to ease the loss you bear, Just know that you are very close in every thought and prayer. To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.