Bill Gaines

                                  THERE IS NO DEATH

There is no death! The stars go down

   To rise upon some other shore,

And bright in heaven’s jeweled crown

   They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The forest leaves

   Convert to life the viewless air;

The rocks disorganize to feed

   The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! The dust we tread

   Shall change, beneath the summer showers

To golden grain, or mellowed fruit,

   Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! The leaves may fall,

   And flowers may fade and pass away-

They only wait through wintry hours,

   The warm, sweet breath of May.

There is no death! The choicest gifts

   That heaven hath kindly lent to earth

Are ever first to seek again

   The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth or joy

   Are worthy of our love or care,

Whose loss has left us desolate,

   Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a desert waste,

   We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,

Transplanted into Paradise,

   Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of birdlike melody

   That we have missed and mourned so long,

Now mingles with the angel choir

   In everlasting song.

There is no death! Although we grieve

   When beautiful, familiar forms

That we have learned to love are torn

   From our embracing arms-

Although with bowed and breaking heart,

   With sable garb and silent tread,

We bear their senseless dust to rest,

   And say that they are “dead,”

They are not dead! They have but passed

   Beyond the mists that blind us here

Into the new and larger life

   Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay

   To put their shining raiment on;

They have not wandered far away-

   They are not “lost” or “gone.”

Though disenthralled and glorified

   They still are here and love us yet;

The dear ones they have left behind

   They never can forget.

And sometimes when our hearts grow faint

   Amid temptations fierce and deep,

Or when the wildly raging waves

   Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow

   Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;

Their arms enfold us, and our hearts

   Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us though unseen,

   The dear, immortal spirits tread-

For all the boundless universe

   Is Life-there are no dead!

J.L.McCreery