SHADOW OF DEATH.
153
I dare not weep: I can but bless
The Love that pitied my distress,
And lent me, in life's wilderness,
So sweet and true a friend.
But if there be—O if there be
A truth in what they say,
That angel-forms we cannot see
Go with us on our way;
Then surely she is with me here,
I dimly feel her spirit near—
The morning mists grow thin and clear,
And Death brings in the Day.
