For death is but a passing phase of life;
A change of dress, a disrobing.
A birth into the unborn again.
A commencing where we ended.
A starting where we stopped to rest.
A crossroad of eternity.
A giving up of something to possess all things.
The end of the unreal,
The beginning of the real.
When life's summer grows to winter
And it's roses fade and fall.
When in vain we try to hinder
Death's commissioned right to all.
When on white lips there's a last kiss
And we see her face no more.
Then it is to know what love is
Waiting on a foreign shore.