Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished
mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its
God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the
chast'ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other
shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are
no more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such an abiding faith even in sorrow