If We Could Read The Secret History

And When The Echoes Had Ceased, Like A Sense Of Pain Was The Silence.

Death Is The Chillness That Precedes The Dawn; We Shudder For A Moment, Then Awake In The Broad Sunshine Of The Other Life.

When She Had Passed, It Seemed Like The Ceasing Of Exquisite Music.

The Poor Too Often Turn Away Unheard, From Hearts That Shut Against Them With A Sound That Will Be Heard In Heaven.

They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.