We shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself.
God comes to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from my past kept fresh in his basket.
When all the strings of my life will be tuned, my Master, then at every touch of thine will come out the music of love.
Let me live truly, my Lord, so that death to me become true.
Man’s history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the insulted man.
I feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over.
I long for the Island of Songs across this heaving Sea of Shouts.
The prelude of the night is commenced in the music of the sunset, in its solemn hymn to the ineffable dark.
I have scaled the peak and found no shelter in fame’s bleak and barren height. Lead me, my Guide, before the light fades, into the valley of quiet where life’s harvest mellows into golden wisdom.
Things look phantastic in this dimness of the dusk-the spires whose bases are lost in the dark and tree tops like blots of ink. I shall wait for the morning and wake up to see thy city in the light.
I have suffered and despaired and known death and I am glad that I am in this great world.
There are tracts in my life that are bare and silent. They are the open spaces where my busy days had their light and air.
Release me from my unfulfilled past clinging to me from behind making death difficult.
Let this be my last word, that I trust your love.