Let us, if possible, gather up the elements of the life of the departed one and weave of them a picture for the walls of memory. Soon would the beauties of summer have charmed her coming. Her life was a rare jewel, her spirt as gold refined in fire, ready for Heaven. But because life and love is stronger than death she is ours still. She is still the mother of her children, upon whom she doted with such clinging fondness, and the champion still of him who mourns earths greatest loss.
Thou go like the quarry slave at night.
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approch thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him and lies down to pleasent dreams.