| |
| IN dying, will the parting breath | |
| Renew our life,—is there no death? | |
| Go ask it of the winter’s snow, | |
| Or of the winds that fiercely blow. | |
| Or ask it of the moaning seas, | 5 |
| Or of the naked, barren trees; | |
| Or of dead leaves that withered lie, | |
| Where autumn saw them fall and die. | |
| |
| Ask of the stars that nightly gleam— | |
| Or ask it of the frozen stream | 10 |
| That in a shroud, all glorious, white, | |
| Lies buried through the wintry night. | |
| This question of another birth, | |
| Go ask it of old mother earth; | |
| Ask it of her when she receives, | 15 |
| The glory of the newer leaves. | |
| |
| Ask it of joyous birds that sing, | |
| Or ask it of the new born spring; | |
| Or of the mists in valleys low, | |
| That sleep—where swollen rivers flow. | 20 |
| Or ask the thunder-toned roar | |
| Of the old ocean breaking o’er | |
| The barriers of some rock-bound shore— | |
| This question of forevermore. | |
| |
| And yet the answer, strong, and sure, | 25 |
| That conquers every human fear, | |
| And wipes away each bitter tear— | |
| Is found in Him whose heart is pure; | |
| This is the answer that He gives, | |
| “Who dies to self, forever lives.” | 30 |
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