Classic Poem

A storm sweeps o'er thy life [of] quiet,
While for the dead thy soul so deeply year[ns,]
One dear to thee has passed, obeying [God's] own fiat—
“That bourne from whence a traveller [ne'er] returns.”
No more thou'd seek with flying feet [the] meeting,
On thy return from task severe and long;
Alas, no more for thee will sound a mother['s] greeting,
Nor home be to thee what it has so long.
Time thy bruised heart will heal—the only sure restorer,
Therefore we trust the tedious sorrow's cure,
Make to God's will a meek surrender,
A crown he has for thee—thy cross endure.
Take heart thou sorely tried one, crushed, but not forsaken,
Kind friends are near and God will send thee aid;
Although He has thy kind protector taken,
He marks the sparrow's fall—be not afraid.