Life is a narrow vale between the cold and beaten
peaks of two eternities.
We strive in vain to look beyond the heights.
We cry aloud-and the only answer is the echo at our
wailing cry.
From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no
word.
But in the night of death Hope sees a star, and listening Love
can hear the rustling of a wing.
He who sleeps here, when dying, mistaking the
approach of death for the return of health, whispered with his latest breath,
"I am better now."
Let us believe, in spite of doubts and fears, that these dear
words are true of all the countless dead.
Robert G. Ingersoll, at his brother's grave, June a,
I879.
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