That he was near to you so many a year But darkens your distress. Would you he were less worthy and less dear That you might grieve the less? He was a golden font that freely poured What goldenly endures, And though that font be gone, its bounty stored and treasured Still is yours. The past is deathless. Souls are wells too deep To spend their purest gains. All that he gave to you is yours to keep While memory remains. Who never had and lost, forlorn are they Far more than you and I Who had and have. Judge not the price we pay For love that cannot die.