COL. HARPER P. HUNT.
247
'T is only the dead leaves we bury, The fragrance is glorified there.But we weep for our own desolation Wild passionate rivers of tears;With hearts that are human and bleeding We walk through the grief-laden years,—On, on till the great shining portal Of heavenly glory is passed,When safe with our crucified Saviour We all shall be gathered at last.
