When I am gone, somehow I hope that spring
Will typify my life, my optimism,
My hope of victory through the years,
My nerve of step, my clear and visioned eye.
The early flowers, the robins singing in
The rain (may they not sing since they have wings?),
The increasing light, the slowly opening buds,
The almond blooms, the trees in vernal dress
Are like the silver crown upon my head:
A prophecy of heaven’s summer time.
Yes, when I die, it shall be springtime then
Of my great immortality.
When I am gone, let men say, He was always young;
Not even Sorrow, with his ruthless plow;
Nor base ingratitude, nor brothers false,
Nor slander’s venomed tooth, nor poverty,
Could rend rude furrows in his springlike soul
That soon arrayed itself with lovely vines
And fragrant flowers that added beauties new
To one who, ripe in years, knew not old age.
--_Western Christian Advocate._
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