The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!