IF souls should only sheen so bright shine

In heaven as in e'thly light, earthly

An’ nothèn better wer the ceäse,

How comely still, in sheäpe an’ feäce,

Would many reach thik happy pleäce,— that

The hopeful souls that in their prime

Ha’ seem'd a-took avore their time—

The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha’ lost their strangth one's

A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, toiling through

An’ over cheäks a-growèn wold old

The slowly-weästen years ha’ rolled

The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; fold

When life is ripe, then death do call

Vor less ov thought, than when do vall

On young vo'ks in their beauty. folk

But pinèn souls, wi’ heads a-hung

In heavy sorrow vor the young,

The sister ov the brother dead,

The father wi’ a child a-vled, flown

The husband when his bride ha’ laid

Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,

Have all a-vound the time to murn mourn

Vor youth that died in beauty.

An’ yeet the church, where praÿer do rise yet

Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,

An’ village greens, a-beät half beäre bare

By dancers that do meet, an’ weär

Such merry looks at feäst an’ feäir,

Do gather under leätest skies,

Their bloomèn cheäks an’ sparklèn eyes,

Though young ha’ died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep

The beauty ov their eärly sleep;

Where comely looks shall never weär

Uncomely, under tweil an’ ceäre. toil

The feäir at death be always feäir,

Still feäir to livers’ thought an’ love,

An’ feäirer still to God above,

Than when they died in beauty.