Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

By Unseen Hands Uplifted In The Light Of Sunset, Yonder Solitary Cloud Floats, With Its White Apparel Blown Abroad, And Wafted Up To Heaven.

Fair Words Gladden So Many A Heart.

Noble Souls, Through Dust And Heat, Rise From Disaster And Defeat The Stronger.

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.