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No one is ever dead to us while there is a memory, or a reminder that they once were.

As long as the mists rise we shall be together.



Oh that I might see thee again and again in the mists of my mind.But as the mists of early morn give way to the warmth of a morning sun, so to do new thoughts invade the privacy of my inner self,and thine image doth once again rise with the morning sun as if on a golden chariot to take thee back to that new haven which is now thy home.

Why oh why did the God's deal to me so overwhelming a burden of grief? Mine anger is kindled against them, and my wrath knows no bounds.They cannot appease my grief with visions of thy beauty and tender youth in apparitions in the mists or the corners of my mind.

Would that I could summon the Gods of others worlds and ask, nay command that
thou be returned to me. In thy sixteenth year did thy fever take thee,though I kissed thy whetted brow and quivering lips thou were lost to me.

My name did sound in thy last sigh as our tears did in fondest love blend in a final farewell. Thy heart was stilled and thy bosom did no longer rise and fall as in slumber, but was forever hushed as death claimed thee as its own.

My life is but an empty shell and my heart is wounded beyond all worldly healing.In the morning mist do I imagine thou art close to me as her cool hand
caresses my brow, and the sound of thy sweet voice comes to me on the early morn bird song.

Would that the mists take me to their bosom that I might be joined again to

thee. But thou art gone and I mourn for thee. Oh thou pretty buttercup, ye hold the tears of my loved one in thy yellow petals and are reluctant to share them with this miserable one. All about me in the earth are reminders of thy tears of joy and happiness and thy final farewell.

The silver threaded cobweb which adorns both hedge and thicket,weeps with thy tears as the mist gives way to the brightness of a lonely new day.The leaves drip diamonds as if they know the ache in my heart, and in their desire to mourn with me shed their misery.

Thou art never far from me, for nature speaks of thee every morn, and I curse the clod who tramples thy very presence under unseeing boot and unfeeling heart. As if thy spirit rises from the earth in the mist of each new day,and thou doth linger on flower and leaf, web and thicket thou art not lost to me.

Thou art glorified in that very sod that covers thy youthfulness, thus thy children remember thee as they drip or hold in unfurled petal the tears of thy joys and thy final farewell.