Classic Poem

Sleep sweetly, gentle one,
Sleep till thy shrouded eyes
Shall waken 'mid the bowers of God,
Oh, bird of Paradise!

Oh, softest, gentlest hands
Did soothe thee to thy rest;
And the pure souls that welcomed thee
Were highest of the blest.

Often we'll call thy name,
And the pure joy it brings
Shall cheer us as the rustling sound
Of thy young seraph's wings.

The hosts that follow thee
To the pure throne of God
Shall find no shadow in the vale
Thy little feet have trod.