I do not mind or fear the growing old:
The fragrance lingers in the fading flower;
Age gives an added luster to love's gold--
When I am called to cross the Silent River
While death, the kind physician, holds my hand,
Strings of the Heavenly harpsichord will quiver
A song to welcome me to that Far Strand.
I would that I might leave with gracious etchings
Engraved by thoughts of beauty on my face;
Portrayed upon my mellowed soul the sketchings
Of artistry through giving love's embrace.
Death bids new portals open--When I go
The hand of God will lead me through, I know.
